


She Whom We Love

by born_awkward



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: 11th Century, A brief history of the Normans, A recounting of period typical attitudes, Aftermath, Arlette - Freeform, Arranged Marriage, Attempted Sexual Assault, Awesome Leia, Because what Ben/Kylo doesn't know about women is a lot, Brendol Hux - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Child Death, DEPICTION OF VIOLENT ACTS, Death Threats, Death of an animal, Depiction of Violence, Devoted Reylo, Dominant Kylo Ren, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Impressions, Fluff and Smut, Freeform, HEA I hope, Homecoming, I appeal to Rome, Idiots in Love, If Ben listens to his mother, Invasion!, Is Rey a good girl/bad girl?, Jealous Kylo Ren, Kylo is Duke of Normandy, Kylo is smart, Kylo majorly hates Poe Dameron, Long Live the King!, Loss of Virginity, Mama Solo gets things done, Marriage Proposal, Marriage Rejection, Marriage Skywalker-Solo style, Medieval AU, Mention of childbirth, Mention of pregnancy, Non-Graphic Violence, Non-con spanking, Nudity (Rey's) in first chapter, Period Typical Attitudes, Pregnancy, Recovery, Recreation of throne room except now in Rouen cathedral, Rey has spun the bottle - and done some other things, Rey is like really really rich, Snoke says bad things about Rey, Tags are harder to write than the fic, Thirsty Poe, Trouble In Paradise, Unplanned Pregnancy, Virgin Kylo Ren, Virginal Rey;), Wedding Night, What has been decided upon is war, a fond duke, a hunting we will go, as she talks back, bad language, but Mama Solo is smarter, death of Tie, depiction of medieval battle, duke of normandy, elopement, f-bomb sorry, historical inacuracies abound, indeed she would last about five seconds in the time period about which she writes, king of england - Freeform, mother and child reunion, reference to mutilation and amputation, the king of france needs a hug, the slaughter at Varaville, the whores of Mortemer, unto us a child is born, virgin kylo, which the author does not share, wives and concubines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2020-03-01 02:12:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 35
Words: 84,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18790921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/born_awkward/pseuds/born_awkward
Summary: He looked into each of their faces. “Tell all”, he demanded.Again, each looked to his fellow, urging his neighbour to repeat the taunts of the lady so that only one received punishment and not all.My lord grew impatient with their tardiness. So much so that he loosened his sword and drew it a little ways from its sheath. They shrank back before him as if one body. Their lord’s voice was low, and deadly in its tone.“I’m waiting for my answer and I swear by the Cross, if I wait even one minute more, this blade of mine will drink a surfeit of blood this day.”None doubted him and a voice, the speaker’s body concealed from the eye of the duke, piped up, “She condemns my lord’s treatment of a son of the church.”A harsh, bitter laugh which ended in a snarl passed Kylo’s lips at that.“Aye, and she called you a monster”, another voice added.A REYLO MEDIEVAL AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, I'm back writing medieval au's. I know the summary sucks but tags and summaries I find harder to write than the actual fic (sigh).
> 
> Anyway, in this first chapter there is bad language, and a non-consensual spanking - so maybe stop reading now ...
> 
> Saragossa (or Zaragosa) swords were considered amongst the best, if not THE best. They were highly prized, produced by Spanish swordsmiths.

He’s on the watch awaiting his good news. He has sent envoys to the Lady Rey asking for her hand in marriage and can hardly contain his excitement at the thought she’ll soon be his. 

He first saw her eight years ago at the court of the french king and since that day she’s never been far from his thoughts – indeed, he’s mad for her. 

Next to her he’s aware he’s uncouth, a clodhopper, but no-one will ever love her the way he’ll love her – devotedly, truly, and for her sake alone and not what she’ll bring him in marriage. 

He had speech with her too, at the court of the french king, and she’d given him a gift. 

A couple of the king’s mastiffs had begun a fight over a bone, a snarling, frightening brawl in front of her. She had screamed, pressing herself against the wall of the dining hall, terrified at the sight and sound of the two great beasts locked in mortal combat at her feet. He had drawn his sword and gone and got her away. 

“Arms around me, sweetheart”, he had said without thinking, and she had clasped him tightly around the neck, legs wrapping themselves around his waist as he carried her away. His blade had been readied to deliver a mortal blow as he shielded her with his body – should either brute in its bloodlust turn on them. 

When he had her safe, he was aware she had been examining his face closely as he’d carried her. She flushed, aware now of his contemplation of her features and let go of him. 

She didn’t move away though, content to stand within the circle of his arm and pressed against him for a few precious minutes – how well she fit against him. His senses were intoxicated by the feel and scent of her, so much so he could not speak when she asked his name. 

She tried again, “Your name, good sir?” 

All he could do was watch those pretty pink lips move and, because they were not private, fight the urge to press kisses on them. 

She had laughed at him then, her lips widening into a brilliant smile and he thought he would combust. Inexplicably her hand was in his, and he was pressing his lips to her palm, a jolt of energy going through them both at his touch. He knew she was as affected as he because her eyes widened and he noticed their colour, hazel. 

“Don’t be afraid, I feel it too”, he had murmured, watching her blush, her eyes darkening to green flecked with gold. 

Then that dolt Dameron was there, that french popinjay, bowing and offering her his hand – wanting to take her away from him. She had not gone though, remaining pressed safe against his side, his arm once more wrapped around her. Dameron then called over her maids, who came crowding around, pulling her out of his hold. 

Dameron had looked him up and down, sneering at his black leather gambeson and the overall plainness of his attire, quite missing that he was dressed to fight and held a naked Saragossa blade in his hand. 

He had spared the fool’s life that day, letting him mince away after the Lady Rey in his red tunic with wide yellow sleeves - one day he would kill him, but not today while Dameron was unarmed, and certainly not before the eyes of his lady. 

He had been rewarded for his self-restraint. A vivacious maid, tiny of stature and black of hair and eye had intercepted him later, giggling and holding out something wrapped in velvet cloth. 

“Here, my lord duke, it is from my lady with her thanks and undying regard.” 

She had pressed the scrap of material into his hand, skipping away before he could collect his wits to offer thanks, unfolding it to find a large, glowing ruby. He had it set in the pommel of his sword and every day touched it and reflected on her message. 

‘Her undying regard’, surely that meant that he had her love? 

He had begun to make plans for his marriage as soon as he got home, making alterations to the chamber above the Great Hall where they would sit together and sleep and be private. 

Used to sleeping on a narrow cot or bench, or on the rush strewn floor, he’d reasoned a wife needed more and ordered a box bed to be built. He hesitated over the hangings, not wanting to consult his mother and face a barrage of intrusive questions, and feeling well out of his depth as his household was mainly male in composition. In the end he decided he would keep his wife’s body warm and draught free with his own, until such time she chose and hung the curtains herself. 

He’d also had to deal with Bishop Snoke. 

In the absence of his father – who knew where _he_ was, (his uncle, an aesthete, having gone to the Holy Land on pilgrimage), bishop Snoke had become his mentor. His mother had warned him against the priest and it had led to a falling out between them. Well, he had fallen out with her, calling her a rebel and a traitor and banishing her to her own manor, such had been Snoke’s influence. 

It had been his own weaknesses, of course, which had allowed the bishop dominance over him, he could see that now. Lacking a father figure, he had made much of the legacy of his grandfather, Anakin Skywalker, and that had been Snoke’s way in. 

His grandmother had inherited the duchy, but it was his grandfather who held it for her, subduing rebellious Norman lords and warring with the french king over his encroachments on his wife’s land. 

Their union was a love match too. His grandfather had seen Padme and decided it was her and none other – his grandmother had been struck by the same dart. 

Snoke had made comparisons with Anakin, flattering his achievements and alienating him from his family, such as they were. The dynamic had changed after he met Rey. 

Bishop Snoke had sensed as soon as he returned from France that their relationship had undergone a material change. Some whisper of the Lady Rey must have reached him, for the next he knew Snoke was pushing him to marry Bazine Netal. 

The lady was of respectable birth and modest fortune. She had great beauty, if you liked that sort of beauty (which he didn’t), but had very little else to recommend her. Kylo, turning the matter over in his mind, concluded that her desirability lay in her usefulness to Snoke whose creature she was. His bishop intended to control him through a wife of his choosing. 

Once he realised the extent to which he’d been subverted, he swung into action with his habitual ruthlessness. He had the lady married to one of his grooms. No-one nobly born would touch her now except, perhaps, to mount her as a mistress – her value now being debased by the lowly status of her husband. (What honour did a wife who had been the drudge of a groom have?). 

Snoke’s hubris was subsequently exposed when he berated Kylo in the cathedral before the altar over his actions – making unfavourable comparison with Anakin. He then begged for death by uttering _her_ name and publicly disparaging it. Kylo was happy to grant his wish. 

He had moved two to three paces away from his insubordinate bishop when the Lady Rey’s name echoed through the building, followed by slanders against her reputation and fault finding with her person. 

The blade at his side left its sheath with a vicious hiss, indicating its craving for blood. It was whirled in an arc over Kylo’s head exhaling bloodlust as it cut through the air, becoming mute as it bit through flesh and bone and sinew as if through butter, sighing its satisfaction as it was lowered to rest once more at its master’s side. 

He turned his back on the now silent Snoke, hearing two dull thuds as the body, now severed into two parts, hit the cathedral’s flagstones. 

Walking away, his raised voice echoed throughout the vaulted building, addressing all in that holy place. 

“Let no man utter that name before me except in praise.” 

Of course, there had to be a reckoning in order to placate the church. His new bishop, Lor San Tekka, had sent him on pilgrimage to a shrine some two days from his capital, Rouen, and he’d had to appear as a penitent in a hair shirt before the cathedrals altar to be publicly whipped. 

He had caught the eye of the monk charged with wielding the lash, and the subsequent blows landed relatively lightly against his broad back as the prescribed number was counted out. 

He had also been put under church interdict for three months, which irritated him as it meant he couldn’t receive the sacrament of marriage; otherwise he would have sent an embassy sooner to the Lady Rey. 

Privately, and this cost him more for he hated to cede land or possessions, he handed over disputed land to the church and a monetary fine. This last indignity caused him to brood and scheme, even before the transfer of ownership, by what means to get them back. 

“Your Grace, Your Grace," he was pulled from his reverie by the excited yelling of one of his squires, "they come, sire, they come.” 

“Here’s my good news”, he exclaimed, standing abruptly and causing his hounds, Roland and Maud, to scramble to their feet and patter after him as he strode into the castle’s courtyard and up onto the ramparts. 

He looked out toward the road and it seemed to him that his envoys horses deliberately dawdled, with heads lowered as if in defeat; their riders, too, slumped in the saddle. 

A tremor ran through him and he turned and went into the Great Hall, standing on the dais where High Table would be set, awaiting them. 

They came to him, their own steps now lagging, each trying to push his fellow forward to give the answer of their duke’s intended bride to his offer of marriage. He felt the muscles in his face harden and the hearts of his envoys plummeted to their shoes – never had they seen their lord look so bleak and grim. Who was to say what revenge he would take on the bearers of such news as they carried? 

“Out with it", his voice was gritty and harsh, "what is her answer?” 

It was best not to keep His Grace waiting when he spoke in that tone. Each one looked to his neighbour and somehow they all managed to answer as one – “Her answer is no, sire.” 

He looked into each of their faces. “Tell all”, he demanded. 

Again, each looked to his fellow, urging his neighbour to repeat the taunts of the lady so that only one received punishment and not all. 

My lord grew impatient with their tardiness, so much so that he loosened his sword and drew it a little ways from its sheath. They shrank back before him as if one body. Their lord’s voice was low, and deadly in its tone. 

“I’m waiting for my answer and I swear by the Cross, if I wait even one minute more, this blade of mine will drink a surfeit of blood this day.” 

None doubted him and a voice, the speaker’s body concealed from the eye of the duke, piped up, “She condemns my lord’s treatment of a son of the church.” 

A harsh, bitter laugh which ended in a snarl passed Kylo’s lips at that. 

“Aye, and she called you a monster”, another voice added. 

The repeating of Lady Rey’s reproaches came thick and fast now. The final one sealed it. 

“She said she’ll not taint her blood with a husband descended from a slave.” 

The hiss which escaped Kylo Ren’s lips at this calculated insult to his beloved grandfather, and by extension his grandmother, sounded loud even against the gasps of his household. All quaked before the expression now upon his face, the workings of his jaw expressing his inner fury. 

Without a word he turned and trod the stairs up to the Great Chamber he had so lovingly furnished for his bride. They heard the door slam shut and the bar set in place – then ominous silence except for the scratching and whining of his hounds, both shut out. 

+++ 

The Normans do not keep slaves, and free them whenever they encounter them. They will take prisoners and hold them for ransom, but any ransomable person is sure to be well treated, the cost of food and accommodation being part of the ransom calculation. 

Anakin’s origins are something of a mystery, this is true. However, it is inconceivable that Padme, who was also a niece of the french king of the time, would give herself in marriage to one who had been a slave. 

No, it is _unthinkable_. It would be a gross _mesalliance_ and bring no honour to her or her duchy. 

The fact that Anakin didn’t hold any land is irrelevant. Many families of impeccable bloodline are rich in sons but poor in holdings and younger sons must strike out and make their own way in the world. Also, Anakin had been trained in the art of war and could read and write – education is a privilege not wasted on slaves and skill with arms is not desirable in one destined for subjugation. 

This insult to his family is intolerable, and action must be taken against the person who has spoken it. 

At first he feels sick at heart. He thought he was loved, but it seems all along he was despised. Why then give him hope and a present? Has she been playing a game, laughing at his devotion behind her hand with her friends – her french friends? Did she seek to make Dameron jealous and hot to have her by setting one against the other? 

This last thought had him sucking in air between his teeth and fighting down the urge to do murder. 

By the time his vigil ended the next morning, his mind was made up. he opened the door to his chamber and toed the body of the squire sleeping across the threshold, biding him bring his breakfast and hauberk and coif – he will dress this morning as if going to war. 

He is on the road within the hour, the six knights who form his personal bodyguard scrambling to catch up with him. No-one asks where they are going; it’s obvious to anyone who knows him where he will head. 

Three days later they pull up before the manor of the Lady Rey. 

There are few signs of life, but more important the iron banded gates are open. He dug his heels into Silencer’s flanks and the big stallion launched himself across the wooden bridge and into the courtyard, his knights and squires following. The cobbles ring out and spark with the rasp of iron shod hooves, adding to the snorting of high-bred horses jostling against one another in the confined space. 

Ren swung himself from the saddle and a squire took charge of his horse. A few servants are unlucky enough to be in the courtyard upon his arrival and he caught one of them by the collar. 

“The Lady Rey," he growled, "take me to her.” 

“Milord," the man was trembling like a leaf, "my lady is still abed.” 

“I repeat, take me to her.” 

“Milord, it is not seemly that you should see her unannounced and while in her shift.” 

“Do you think your death will provide incentive for another to take me to her?” 

This is unarguable and the man caved in, leading him to her chamber with lagging steps and a miserable expression on his face. They walked up a stone staircase and the man pointed to a door. 

Ren nodded and walked forward to push against it. It yielded to him and opened. 

Yes, it’s her room and word of his coming had already reached her, she is standing by her bed with two maids pressed against her, clinging to her robe. 

He’s here to chastise her, but, Maker, he can’t help but notice how beautiful she looks, with sleep still clinging to her and lending an erotic softness to her features. No, he will not let himself be seduced from his intent. 

Walking toward her, he ordered the maids to be gone. Instead, they pressed even closer to their mistress, terrified but determined to outface him. 

He snarled at them, “What, do you need schooling too?” 

They whimpered and grasped their mistress’s robe more tightly, beginning to sob. 

Regarding him, Rey read his intentions and gently ordered the girls to leave her. 

“My lady!” they cried. 

She held his gaze, “Nothing very bad is going to happen here. Lord Ren wishes to be private with me, please leave us.” 

She pushed them away from her, loosening their fingers from her robe and urging them once more to leave the room. As they ran past him, he began: 

“I have heard your answer to my offer," his voice was tight with emotion, "and have brought you my reply.” 

With that he lunged forward and seized her, dragging her to a nearby stool. He tore her robe off of her and by all that’s holy, he later swears, he thought she would be wearing a shift underneath. She is not, presenting before his eyes as bare as the day she was born, save for her glorious waist length chestnut hair. 

For one moment he drank in the sight of her, she standing erect and unashamed before his devouring gaze – truly she would be a consort fit for kings and emperors. No, he will not be deterred. Growling, he sat on the stool and pulled her over his knee to spank her. 

It had been his intention to deliver twenty slaps to her buttocks, the same number bestowed upon him as punishment by the church. However, her ass is so succulent to his eyes; he cannot continue with his vow and mar its perfection. 

The smooth, full globes ripple with each strike and he fought the urge to pass a soothing hand over the redness he has inflicted. A lewd thought entered his mind at the sight she presented, spread out like a banquet over his knees. Ashamed of her effect on him he pushed her off his knee – it is unlikely she would feel his burgeoning erection through the metal rings of the hauberk, but he won’t take the chance. 

Gazing up at him, lying prone at his feet, there are tears in her eyes because of the pain he inflicted, but also a look which, if it were possible, would kill him where he sat. He stood then, pulling her up to face him. 

“Yes, I executed Snoke, and did it for the sake of your name.” 

A look of derision passed over her features. 

“He called you a goggle eyed witch, who sucked the cock of the french king to keep position and place and would suck mine to be a penny richer, as is the nature of all whores.” 

His words have shocked her. 

“It’s not nice is it," he continued, "to be so unjustly judged and insulted? Let me tell you, little girl, insult my grandparents again and I’ll pull this manor down around your ears stone by stone.” 

He surprised himself with the venom in his voice. It must reflect the current savage state of his libido. He must get away from her before he loses control and adds to his crimes. 

He almost makes the door when her voice rings out, “My lord duke!” 

In spite of his best intent, he slowed and turned toward her. She is walking slowly and deliberately toward him, unashamed of her nakedness. 

Is she truly a virgin or so full of defiance she is forgetful of her nakedness, he wonders? 

She is before him, those wide hazel eyes looking up at him. He again notices the green in them and the flecks of gold. The next he knows, he has a woman pressed against him, a woman with arms winding around his neck and soft, plump lips working against his own. 

His treacherous body responded, clasping her to his breast, mindful of the unyielding nature of the hauberk. This is his dream come true, to have her in his arms, his woman, his wife. He deepened the kiss and she moaned against him, her hands travelling up to fist his hair. 

Daringly, he moved a hand to cup one of her breasts, a perfect fit, and thumbed the nipple feeling it harden. Breaking the kiss and raising his head to look down at her, he sees her eyes have a dreamy quality about them, a soft unfocused look. Ironically, it’s this look which restores his senses – she isn’t his and never will be his. 

Stooping, he lifted her and carried her toward the bed. She is resistless in his arms, of course she is, and this is a seduction not submission. He stood over the bed looking down at her and then dropped her on it. She yelped as her sore backside hit the mattress. 

“Nice try, sweetheart.” 

He heard her call him by name rather than title as he left, but kept on going. 

Mounting Silencer, he urged him into a trot across the bridge. Once on the road, he touched his spurs to his horse’s flanks and the stallion moved smoothly into a canter, heading for home.


	2. Chapter 2

She remembers that day, of course she does, the terror she felt when the two massive hounds started their fight at her feet and no-one coming to her aid but him, the tall knight dressed in black. 

She remembers the relief she felt to hear those words ‘Arms around me, sweetheart’, and how she’d wrapped herself around him clinging onto him like a limpet. She’d felt safe with that strong arm around her, the shining blade of the sword he had unsheathed drawing the light so it shone before them like a beacon to lead them home. 

Once they were clear of the maul she had studied the face of her rescuer, finding him beautiful before her eyes. She’d felt a little self-conscious to be found out in her staring as he had begun to stare back at her with those cognac coloured eyes, so intense in their expressiveness – so pretty. 

Pressed to his side was the safest she’d ever felt. Had they been left alone she was sure she could have cured him of his shyness, starting a conversation which would take them a lifetime to complete. Then Poe had come, sending her maids to do what he couldn’t – pull her from the arms of her knight. 

The pressure of his lips against her palm was also a memory she carried still, along with the thrill that had run through her at his touch and at his words. When she had made inquiry as to his name, her knight being too tongue tied and shy to answer, Poe had scoffed as he told her – Kylo Ren, Duke of Normandy. 

Her eyes had widened in shock and she gasped. She had heard of the duke’s savagery, and couldn’t reconcile his reputation for violence with the kind stranger who had rescued her. 

Poe had been suspicious and clingy over her interest in the Duke. In part, it had been wilfulness to send him such a precious jewel – Poe did not own her, they were not betrothed. The message accompanying it, however, was from her heart. 

She had long suspected that the maid she sent with the gift spied for Poe, and she had charged her strictly to tell no-one, _no-one_ , of it. 

Poe _had_ heard of it, of course, and hadn’t been able to conceal his jealousy enough to be discreet and not give the girl away. He teased her about it, a hard possessive look on his face. She had looked immediately across to Rose and saw fear and guilt on the girl’s face, taking care afterwards to keep her secrets better. 

Poe was becoming bolder by the day and demanding of her body. A flirtation which had begun out of boredom and curiosity was rapidly getting out of her control. Poe it was who had first kissed her, schooling her in how to please a man with kisses, how to make them more heated through the use of the tongue. 

It was difficult to be truly private at court. Nevertheless, Poe managed to contrive discreet assignations where he pleasured her with his fingers, hoping to persuade her to let him into her bed. She cursed herself now for ever letting him touch her person in such an intimate way. What had started off as experimentation on her part had been taken very seriously by him – after all, she was an heiress. 

More and more during their trysts he was pressing her hand to his crotch, letting her feel his growing hardness and begging to let him show her the proper use of what was concealed there. In the face of her adamant refusal, and his growing exasperation with her, he had begun taking the handkerchief from her sleeve after these encounters, later returning it as a small sticky square of linen pressed into her palm as he kissed her hand. She wished she could be free of him. 

Technically, she supposed, she was still a virgin, but in terms of knowledge and her burgeoning needs she was not. 

To hear bishop Snoke’s insult from the lips of her knight had shocked her. 

What had caused the bishop to link her name with sexual misconduct? Had Poe been boasting about their trysts? Were their supposedly discreet assignations known throughout the court? Did the king know? Was Rose, jealous Rose, showing her claws and sharing secrets, or had Poe had her whisper confidences abroad hoping to bounce her into marriage with him to save her reputation? 

Gah, her mind was on fire with speculation and worry, except for that one sure pathway that led her back to her knight. 

She wished now her initial determination to defy him had not made her so brazen, but that she had instead at least attempted to conceal her body from his burning gaze. She wished she had not kept stubbornly silent at his brutality and had instead made play with piteous cries and tears. She wished she had not kissed him in such an unchaste way, but had instead pressed her lips to his and let him take the lead. 

She resumed her pacing up and down, sitting was not an option right now, her door secured against interruptions. Think, Rey, think, she begged her overwrought mind. 

Whatever she decided, she must do it quickly. She had set her nurse to watch Rose, but imagined the girl would lose no time in somehow getting word to Poe about the duke’s visit. If Poe came here, where she was protected only by servants, she wasn’t sure if she could hold him off any longer. He was so intense and persistent and ... desperate. It would be easier to give in than continue to hold out. 

She could send for her comptroller, Sir Unkar Plutt, but he was not her man but the king’s, which made her mistrustful of him and his loyalty to her. 

The french king had helped the duke hold onto Normandy as a teenager, but their rapprochement had long ceased – the french king now regarded him as a rival. No, Plutt would benefit from her marriage to Poe and earn the king’s reproach if she married Lord Kylo. 

Had she lost the love of her knight? She didn’t think so. Angered and disappointed him? Yes. Could she regain the ground she had lost with him? She thought so, there had been want in his eyes as he looked upon her. 

Clearly, he had read a lot into the message she had sent him all those months ago, taking it as a declaration of love it would seem. Taken it seriously enough to execute a priest before his altar for slandering her and make her a proper offer of marriage – sending envoys with gifts to petition her for him, in accord with their status. 

She paused in her perambulation of her room. A remark about the duke’s possessive nature had come to mind: that he would not willingly give up even a morsel of bread, but would fight to keep it. 

Ideas flooded through her mind. She sifted and sorted through them – a plan emerged. 

Moving quickly to her door, she flung it open and called for her nurse.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a short chapter, but I didn't want to take away from the interaction between mother and son.
> 
> puissance = power, vigour

On his return journey to Rouen, his mood swings have made him virtually impossible to be around. His knights and squires grit their teeth and count off the miles to home where they can hide from him. He himself doesn’t know what he’s feeling, only knowing at the end of each day he is exhausted emotionally and just feels _wrong_ all the time. 

Adding to his problems is the image of a naked Rey his mind keeps putting, unbidden, before him – spread out over his knee and ripe for the taking. This results in his penis imposing erections on him of such _puissance_ he is bent double because of them and has to take himself in hand – repeatedly. If it happens when he is on horseback, he is in thrall to it and it makes riding hell – which further adds to his foul mood. 

His rational mind is so not in change. 

The journey home took a little longer than the outward journey – certain of his subjects were on the watch for him, petitioning him to exercise his ducal authority. So he gave judgement or threatened violence to settle disputes. He longs for a fight, but, unusually, even the most recalcitrant in his duchy seemed eager to come to terms. He can’t understand it. It deepened his foul mood. 

Five long days ... then at last he urged Silencer up the slope to his castle and was able to dismount and consider himself home. His steward was bustling toward him greeting him with a happy smile, which faltered when he saw my lord’s face. Still, he was the bearer of good news. 

“What! My lady mother is here?" Kylo spoke in a thunderous voice. "Who sent for her?” 

“No-one, my lord," squeaked Mitaka, "she came of her own accord.” 

He stood there, seething. If he finds out who has sent word to her about his failed proposal it will be necessary for him to endure another interdict. 

Of course, he thought bitterly, his mother wouldn’t stay away if there was a chance of him being married and producing the grandchildren she so desperately craved. 

He stomped to one of the narrow wall chambers usually reserved for higher status visitors, his mother having taken possession of the Great Chamber fitted out for his wife, to strip and sponge the dust and sweat from his body. 

After his ablutions, and dressed in clean clothes, he did feel marginally more cheerful and headed out to greet her. He found her comfortably ensconced before the hearth gossiping as her ladies spun or sewed or embroidered around her. 

“Benjamin!” 

He ground his teeth. His instinct was to correct her, but, knowing her stubbornness matched his own, contented himself with acknowledging her with a brief “Mother.” He bent over her, dutifully kissing her cheeks. Her skin was soft against his lips and he caught the comforting scent of her perfume – orris root. 

For one mad moment he wanted to blurt out his troubles to her and lay his head in her lap and have her card her fingers through his hair and tell him everything would be alright. He caught himself, they were not alone and it would be disastrous to show weakness over a woman in public. 

She avoided the subject of where he had been the last eight days and he gradually relaxed in her company. She had aged since he’d last seen her but, to his eyes, she was still beautiful. Her eyes still dominated her face he noted, still doe-like and keeping their brilliance, shrewd in their contemplation of the world. 

What a duchess she would have made, he thought, had she not married his father in a moment of madness and rendered herself ineligible. He sighed, what a duchess, too, his beloved would have made. 

Leia caught the sigh but held her peace, instead calling for refreshments to be brought and a stool for her son to sit on. They spoke of everything and nothing, eventually going to eat dinner in the Great Hall, he giving up his carved chair to her whilst he perched on a stool seated at her right hand. 

His steward wanted his attention but he waved away all business, instead allowing himself a holiday with his mother. He had forgotten what good company she was, full of charm and sly humour. He walked her around the castle grounds, such as they were, and she encouraged him to plant a garden. She watched his jaw working, and he looked as though he had something to say before once more clamming up. 

Sat once more in the Great Chamber, she called for a chess board to be set up. Her son loved to be challenged and played every game to win. The red and white pieces were set up and they agreed the best of three. She was just as competitive, but hid it better, and battle commenced. At the end of it, having won after a struggle, his equilibrium was much restored and he bid her a fond good night. 

She was tiny in his arms, peering up at him, for once her gaze unguarded not hiding her love for him. He knew she was managing him and was grateful, leaning down and whispering to her “Thank you.” He paused, and then added “I love you.” 

Her eyes were a little teary and her smile a little misty, “I love you too. Sleep well, my son.” 

He bent again and gave her one last kiss. Her grip on him tightened momentarily. 

“Goodnight, Maman, sleep well.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've chanelled the trailer of Rise of Skywalker in this chapter. So it contains a depiction of violence, an attempted assault and a violent death. If any of these themes are triggering, stop reading now ...

He awoke the next morning both refreshed and resigned. The burning in his mind and body had gone. He felt lost. 

He drew back the curtain covering the doorway of his chamber and there was his body squire waiting to help him dress and bring him his breakfast. As he drank his beer and nibbled at his bread, he resolved to ask his mother to stay awhile and discuss finding a marriage mate. Anyone would do now, as long as she brought some measure of honour to his duchy. 

He headed for the stables after breaking his fast to check on the welfare of his horse. Silencer was tired but had taken no hurt his groom assured him. They agreed on a week’s holiday for the horse, turning him out to pasture. Meanwhile Ren will use his second mount. 

This done, he went to find his steward. Although Mitaka was an excellent steward he was not Ren, and there were certain judgements only the weight of his word could resolve. As men’s faces were turned to him in war, so were they turned to him in peace for guidance and justice. 

They worked through the outstanding matters, pausing when they heard the dinner bell and making their way to the Great Hall. His mother was just entering the hall with her ladies. He took her hand, seating her in his carved chair and sitting on a stool at her right hand. 

He didn’t mean to be silent throughout the meal, but apparently he was and his mother chided him for it later. 

“Maman," his throat felt as though it would close up so he swallowed hard then pushed on, "I want you to do something for me.” 

She waited on him patiently. 

The sigh he gave before speaking seemed to come from the depths of his soul. 

He began, “I have waited too long and must now be married. I wish you to find some eligible lady to whom I may present my suit.” 

An image of a naked Rey came to mind. It didn’t provoke the bodily response it once had, instead filling him with an aching loneliness. 

“Her looks are irrelevant, unless she’s rendered repulsive, but she must be ripe for childbearing. The only reason I marry is for children, sons to hold what I have gained.” 

The ache was growing. 

“She needn’t be of the highest aristocracy, but she must bring some honour to my duchy.” 

He stopped speaking, the ache was pressing against his heart now. 

He felt a small hand slip into his and squeeze. He tightened his grip and looked down into his mother’s concerned face, her lovely dark eyes full of unshed tears. 

His mother’s voice was low and shook as she spoke, “Is there no hope my son that she will relent?” 

“It’s not her, Maman, it’s me. My fault. I repudiated her.” 

His mother’s mouth made an ‘oh’ of understanding and she wrapped her arms around him as best she could. He wound his own around her and bent to bury his face in her hair. 

If nothing else positive came out of this, he thought, at least he had his mother back in his life, and that felt good. 

+++ 

The pattern of the next day passed much the same, except as they rose from dinner a sentry came into the Great Hall and approached the High Table with urgent steps, bowing low as he paused before it. 

Ren had taken his mother’s hand as a precursor to leading her back to her quarters; he halted, looking his inquiry. 

“Your Grace, there are three poor persons at the gate asking for admittance.” 

Ren didn’t speak, but looked his question. 

The sentry ploughed on, “There is trouble, Your Grace. The young lady said she was the Lady Rey, Countess of Naboo, and requested entry. She was not believed, sire, and was manhandled. She broke Temmin’s nose. I thought it best to come tell you.” 

The duke was already moving rapidly toward the door. 

Leia smiled at the sentry, “Tell me... “, she paused, arching a brow in query. 

“Finn, my lady, my name is Finn.” 

“Tell me, Finn, what is she like, this Countess of Naboo?” 

He didn’t hesitate, “My lady, she is very beautiful, even in rags.” 

Leia beamed at him, “Thank you, Finn.” 

Meanwhile, Kylo had broken into a run, headed for the main gate and the guard post there. He saw a soldier manhandling his beloved. Her gown had been torn at her breast, and the man was trying to do the same with her chemise as she fought savagely against him.” 

He was unaware of drawing it, but suddenly the Saragossa blade was in his hand and as he reached her assailant he body slammed him, his swords pommel driving into his chest. As the man went down, his sword spun in his hand and he drove it down vertically. 

The Spanish blade was empowered by his bloodlust and found a chink, a way through metal and leather, and the man was no more. It hissed venomously as it was withdrawn and turned to seek more blood. 

All violent actions had been stilled around him as the remaining two guards stared in open mouthed horror at their duke’s savage and swift judgment, dropping immediately to their knees and beseeching his forgiveness for their error. 

It was a sob that saved them. He turned, wild of eye, his hair falling over his face – his lady was reaching out for him, one hand holding up her torn gown against her breast. 

He could not ignore her obvious distress. “Love”, he was moving toward her, and she toward him, the kneeling soldiers forgotten for the moment. He clasped her to him one armed, still holding his unsheathed sword. 

Their lips met and nothing which had gone before was worthy of remembrance. 

“My heart, my love, my precious girl”, all the endearments he had ever heard spoken was gushing forth from his lips, interspersed with ardent kisses. 

“I have come," she told him in breaks from the hot press of his lips, "to beg for a place at your hearth. If I go back the king will marry me to Dameron, and I want you – only you.” 

His one arm crushed her to him and his mouth and tongue worked against hers. 

He broke to take in air and to assure her that no man, _no man_ , would take her from him. 

The sound of cattle lowing caught his attention and he realised a covered wagon pulled by two oxen was stopped a little way down the slope. He looked at her in inquiry. 

“I packed up my household," she told him, "two more wagons follow and I beg that you send an escort to bring them safely here. We had no problems on the road, you had ridden just ahead of us and we had only to mention we belonged to you to pass through unmolested – until we arrived here.” 

His jaw began to work, a mannerism peculiar to him. 

“Sweetheart, take your people and go up, I’ll follow shortly.” 

She shook her head vigorously, “No, love, I trust no hands here save yours.” 

His heart sang with her avowal of trust, but it hindered him in his intentions. 

He lowered his head, meaning to kiss her and gently shepherd her and her people ahead of him. However, as their lips met, he felt her hands go into his hair, her nails lightly scratching his scalp. He purred into her mouth. At this her tiny hands fisted his hair and tugged it slightly. By the end of the kiss he would entrust her care to no-one but himself. 

They broke again, he still pressing her against him, and he realised they had an audience, a sizeable number of his people ogling them. Well, he would give these idlers something to do. 

He pointed his sword at the still kneeling soldiers, “Put those two under lock and key, bring my lady’s possessions and carry them to the Great Chamber and get rid of that” – his sword was pointing at the slain soldier. 

Her people had approached, her steward and her nurse, both showing visible signs of rough treatment with their torn clothes and bloodied and bruised faces – they had fought to preserve their mistress’s honour. 

“Mitaka!" he called, the steward stepped out of the crowd of onlookers, "see to my betrothed’s servants." He sent a vicious look toward the two soldiers, "My honour is compromised, make reparation.” 

The two kneeling men shivered at his words. 

He drew her through the gathered throng, which parted before him, and delivered her and her nurse into his mother’s hands at the door of the Great Chamber. He would like to go in with her, but here the conventions must be observed in order to preserve her honour and he turned away. 

He intended, when he reached the courtyard, to go deal with the two guards, however the wagon had been drawn up and the cover removed. Under the direction of his betrothed’s steward, who was now looking quite ill, the unloading of it had begun. 

Certain items caught his eye and he loitered. For instance, tapestries were both desirable and rare – they were also expensive. Two were being unloaded from the wagon, carefully rolled up and wrapped in linen. His attention was engaged. 

Starting to get involved in the disbursements, he got Mitaka to open his strong room for the tapestries and certain other items – like the heavily banded chest which contained her treasury, so he’s told, and others like it which contained items of gold and silver. 

Her steward is looking tired and worn, so he insisted that he leave all in his own (capable) hands, asking that the keys to the locked chests be handed over. They are retrieved from where they have been concealed in the wagon and the man tottered, off leaning on Mitaka’s arm, leaving Kylo to take inventory. 

Recalling that there are two other wagons journeying toward him, he immediately dispatched an escort to bring them in under protective custody. 

He spent a happy hour in his strong room assessing the nature and extent of the wealth his betrothed has brought him and at the end of it is well satisfied of her worthiness to be his duchess – aside from her physical beauty and, of course, his most constant love. 

He sketches out a strategy in his mind. Upon their marriage he will annex her county of Naboo. He will bestow it on his second son he thinks or perhaps his third as he has another acquisition in mind. He will have to fight the french king at some point because of her. He sees now why she was being importuned quite against her will to marry Dameron and thereby remain under the control of the king. 

Also, although he will always acknowledge Henry as suzerain, he will no longer go up year on year to renew his vow of allegiance - with her wealth backing him he kneels to no man. As he locked the door to his strong room he found himself very well satisfied with his choice of bride. 

He next saw her at supper looking lovely in a green silk bliaut, which hugged her form from bust to hip, with a voluminous skirt which rustled delightfully as she moved toward him at High Table. She had turned the long sleeves back to make a wide cuff to show off the patterned silk lining, and he noted the sleeves of her chemise was also silk rather than the usual linen or wool. 

His mother had plaited her hair with a crown braid, which Rey had adorned with a gold enamelled coronet. She looked every inch a queen and no other woman there could eclipse her beauty or be worthy of his attention or love. 

Taking in these details, along with her fine red leather shoes and girdle comprised of small gold tablets artfully wrought with a precious jewel embedded in each, twice wound around her tiny waist, he hummed with satisfaction. He would never give her back now, no matter what force the french king brought against him. He would marry her within the week, bed her and then go to war. He couldn’t recall ever being so happy. 

+++ 

He looked down at her, fast asleep with her hair spread over the feather and down pillows she has replaced his straw stuffed ones with, tucked under a fur rug. His last doubt about her has been dismissed – whatever tricks she learned at the court of the french king with regard to kissing; she came to his bed a virgin. 

He had walked her to the cathedral under a canopy of white linen to proclaim her virginity, each corner held by one of his knights. It had been held over her as she stood at the altar rail too. She’d worn her green silk dress and he’d worn a purple tunic trimmed with gold. They had both worn cloaks so long they touched their heels, signifying their high status, fastened by jewelled brooches at their shoulders. 

He had worn his ducal crown and she her gold coronet. It would be the last time her uncovered hair would be seen in public and his mother had braided it beautifully. 

It was important his people saw her as she will hold the duchy for him when he goes away to fight, as he must. He has asked his mother to stay on indefinitely, to mentor her. She will issue charters and administer justice while he fights the french king and the usurper who has laid claim to her lands. If he can kill Dameron too, he will be well pleased – he suspects it was Dameron who taught her to kiss. 

He can never honour her enough because of the wealth she has brought him, and will bring him when he regains control of her lands. 

A promise was made to him some time ago, and was recently reaffirmed. 

The English king, whose mother was once briefly a duchess of Normandy has no sons, indeed has fathered no children. He is married to the aunt of his greatest enemy, under duress apparently. He has retaliated by refusing to consummate the marriage – perhaps he can’t? 

Whatever, he has promised his kingdom to him when he passes. He has heard there are two others who are waiting on the English king’s death, powerful men, rich men – but not as rich as he, thanks to his little wife. 

His goals are clear, subdue the french king without killing him, kill the usurper and Dameron, and teach his wife how to hold his duchy when he’s gone to war protecting what is rightfully his. 

It’s going to be hard being parted from her, and he anticipates the fighting will be brutal. A less determined man would balk at the task, but he is not that man. 

She stirs in her sleep as if aware of his contemplation of her, the gold of her wedding ring catching the light of the candles burning in their prickets. She stirs again and murmurs his name. Soon he will fight, but now he must love. He shrugs off his robe and slides in beside her, “I’m here, sweetheart.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> raison d'etre = purpose
> 
> Although obedient to the church teaching of one wife, all children born to Norman men were legitimate and not barred from inheriting. So a son born out of wedlock to Gerald (acknowledged by him to be his) and named William would be known as William fitz Gerald. Fitz meaning son of. That was the only distinction between sons born in and out of wedlock.
> 
> A girl born to Gerald out of wedlock (acknowledged by him to be his) and named Maud would be known as Maud de Gerald.

Barely had the tenth century begun when a small fleet of Viking longships glided through the waters of the River Seine toward a settlement they knew as Rouen. 

Disembarking, the visitors emptied the ships of their possessions, salvaging anything with which they could build shelter, and then their leader, Rollo, stepped forward with a lit torch and fired each ship. They would live as land dwellers now and either thrive or die. 

Thrive they did. 

In very quick order they converted to Christianity, adopted french as their principal language and gave their descendants french names. Something of their original tongue remained though, a fusion of Norse words and French spoken between them and known as Norman-French. 

Rouen became the capital of what eventually became the duchy of Normandy, a derivative of Normannia: ‘the land of the Norsemen’. 

Attempts were made to curb their expansion, either through war or marriage – Rollo’s son and grandson married daughters of the french king. However, no matter their outward frenchification, their blood was not diluted, it still pulsed with its twin _raison d’être_ : fight and fuck. 

They laid aside their battle axes and shield rings and fought instead on horseback with lance and sword carrying a kite shaped shield, as cavalry. Their horses were large and muscular and as savage as the men who rode them into battle, trained to bite and kick, the mail clad rider seated on a high red leather saddle, stirrups worn long in the unique Norman style. 

It must not be supposed they lived in amity with each other, their blood made them covetous and greedy of what their neighbour had, his land, his wealth, his daughters – sometimes his wife. It needed a strong hand to rule over such a turbulent people, say a duke, an Iron Duke. 

Anakin had proven to be such a one and the soubriquet was well earned. However, Anakin had a weakness, a woman; to be precise, his wife. 

Because of this weakness he ignored the second imperative and kept himself to the one woman, siring only one son on a wife older than he. As this son grew up, it was clear he was more priest than warrior, his daughter now ... she was a different matter. What a Duchess she would make! 

Just when men were bringing their sons to her notice, Anakin was found to be doubly unfortunate in his children – Leia had met, and married without consent, a man from the soft far south, from the Languedoc, a troubadour. 

Men drew their breath in through their teeth when they heard this, hissing their displeasure, shaking their heads and locking up their daughters. 

Anakin visited his wrath on the priest who had married them, thrashing him before his altar, and then men eagerly speculated as he hunted down the runaway couple, what punishment had he in mind for them both? 

They were disappointed in their imaginings. Anakin did find them, and brought them home. Men shook their heads comprehending, it seemed Anakin was not master in his own home, the soft hands and soft mouth of his wife must have prevailed. This was not the way to treat ungrateful daughters; men began to get restive under the hands of the iron Duke, to whisper treasonous things. 

Some months later, it became evident why Anakin had stayed his hand, the daughter was pregnant. Still, the soft southerner was not and yet went unpunished. Eight months later a fine lusty boy was born. This boy was very much in the mould of Anakin, and who knew what grandsire and grandson would have achieved if Padme hadn’t passed – Anakin following soon after. 

Normandy erupted, the counts and seigneurs banding together and marching on Rouen to capture the castle and the boy. Anakin was way ahead of them, they met the armies of the french king and were subjugated once more. 

As obedient hounds, they stripped off spurs and sword and head covering, kneeling before their most merciful twelve year old duke, hands raised in supplication and swearing the oath of allegiance to him. Their most benevolent duke graciously clasped their hands lightly between his own as they each promised, with the most sacred oaths, to be his liege man. 

For six years the french king supported the teenage duke, satisfied that, in time, through marriage, the duchy would become once more a possession of France, more specifically, of the Capetian monarchy. 

As the duke approached his eighteenth year, the subject of marriage began to be raised. The king’s daughter was almost of marriageable age. He could not know that the young duke’s heart had already been captured – by a girl with sun kissed skin and freckles and the widest of hazel eyes, living at court as a ward of the french king. 

He didn’t approach her, not yet, he was tall, over six feet already, and still gangly of limb except when in the saddle or in combat, and horribly self-conscious and inept around girls – she was ten to his eighteen. Besides, it would be ruinous of his plans if the french king got even a whiff of his interest in her. 

Anyways, that fop, that popinjay, that _excrescence_ Dameron was always by her side, preening and posturing, displaying his latest fashion _disaster_ in a way that was downright _womanish_. Already, at thirteen, rogering maids, he’d heard. He ground his teeth and grasped the hilt of his beloved sword. If Dameron ever laid hands on _her_ ... precept battled with instinct and won, Dameron lived another day. 

He had deflected regarding his marriage at first, all the while consolidating his dominance over his subjects, pushing back the french, yearly travelling to Paris and renewing his oath of allegiance – as negotiated by Anakin in exchange for protection of his grandson. Secretly seething at the need, but submitting to it as it meant he saw _her_ \- but always with Dameron by her side. 

Now, though, he had her and she was proving a very conformable wife, rich too, and all pretence between him and the french king peeled away and rich layers of resentment on both sides were exposed. The french king had feared him, seen him as a rival, and now, married to the Lady Rey, able to access her fortune and rich lands, a threat. 

Ren’s subjects were eager to fight the french king too. The presence of french troops had served as a reproach, reminding them of their treachery, and had been a blight on their sovereignty. 

Also, their duke’s exercise of manly behaviour had impressed them. That was the way to deal with insubordinate priests and mouthy women. It had worked too. Said woman had come crawling to him they heard, begging him to marry her and he had graciously consented, after first ensuring she was worthy of him. 

‘She whom we love and dearly cherish has consented to marry us’, the letters summoning them to his marriage had begun, and they had wavered in their opinion, worriedly recalling Anakin and his uxoriousness. 

Sa, sa they nodded their heads wisely at the wedding feast, eating off silver plate and drinking out of gold cups brought to their duke by his new bride. It was obvious what their duke loved and dearly cherished, they sniggered behind their hands enjoying their duke’s joke. 

Later, lying down to sleep, heads resting on straw filled pillows, rich bearskin rugs drawn over their bodies, brought to their duke by his new bride, bellies full of good food and wine, they thought benevolently on their duke. 

It was good to let women have their little conceits from time to time, it kept them happy and busy with the concerns of women, while they got on with the concerns of men. 

It was at this time men began thinking of Kylo Ren as the Iron Duke.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kist = unsecured chest for clothes and linens
> 
> Bayeux = pronouced buyer, but without the r
> 
> Sorry for the delay in posting, then this happened.

She had thought Leia may hate her just a little if she knew the trouble she had put her son to, and heard of the insult she had uttered about his grandfather – her father. However, when Kylo had brought her into the Great Chamber with her nurse and put her hand in Leia’s, she had received nothing but kindness. 

Overwrought with all she had brought upon herself, and the assault at the gate, Leia’s kindness had triggered hot tears as she had been drawn into her arms and tightly held. Rey had not known a mother’s love for many years, indeed had forgotten what it felt like to be held tenderly and have someone croon comforting words over her. 

Her hair was released from its tightly wound coif, Leia exclaiming over its length and lustre and she had been given a warm drink and put to bed. Expressing concern for her nurse, she was assured nurse would be well taken care of. Exhausted, she fell back on the pillow and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Her last conscious sensation was of Leia drawing a rug over her and gently stroking her hair. 

She awoke, drawn from sleep by soft whispers and smothered exclamations – Leia and her ladies were unpacking her clothes kists, absorbed in their task. Leia was shaking out her silk dresses, lips pursed in appreciation of the bright shimmering colours. Rey sat up, casting off the rug and saying, a little plaintively, “Where is Nurse?” 

Leia handed the dress she was admiring to one of her ladies, crossing over to her with a bright smile on her face. 

“Nurse is resting. She has taken no lasting hurt and her wounds have been tended to. How do you feel?” 

“A little shaken," she paused, taking an internal inventory, "and hungry.” 

Leia laughed, turning to one of her ladies and requesting she have food brought from the kitchens. Rey swung her legs out of bed and went to stand, Leia catching one of her hands to support her. Rey winced as she stood, “and sore”, she added to Leia’s inquiry. 

“You have had a poor introduction to Norman hospitality, but Ben has taken the necessary steps to ensure it never happens again.” 

“Ben?” 

Leia saw the confusion in the girl’s face and clasped her hand comfortingly, “I will explain when we are private.” 

Rey nodded, accepting this temporisation as food had been brought her. Leia was leading her to a stool, but Rey demurred and replied she’d rather stand, tucking into warm barley cakes covered in honey as attention was turned once more to her clothes. 

She spoke up as each kist was examined. Which kists contained her winter clothes and which kists contained her furs – these must be stored somewhere cool. 

“Goodness, Rey, did you bring all your clothes?” asked Leia. 

Rey nodded, “I packed up my entire household. There are two more wagons to arrive.” 

A murmur ran through the chamber. 

Leia was eyeing her critically, “What are your intentions, Rey?” 

All eyes were fixed on her and her chin went up, “To beg a place at Lord Ren’s hearth – if I must.” 

Leia chuckled, “I think he will offer you more than that. I know my son.” 

Leia turned her attention once more to the silk gowns, “We must bathe you and dress you in your finery. Every eye in the castle will be there this evening to see its duchess.” 

“Do you think he will? That is to say, I hoped...” Rey stammered out. 

Leia turned an amused face toward her, “My son will not let such a prize as this pass through his fingers.” 

Rey pondered on these words and believed she understood them. It was as she had thought, once Kylo saw what she could bring him materially; he would never let her go. Still, it was better than being in Dameron’s insufferable hands as a chattel of the french king. She submitted to Leia’s ministrations. 

As she was sponged down, exclamations were made over her bruises, particularly those on her bottom. She declined to enlighten them at whose hands she had received these. Her feet washed and her hair brushed and styled by Leia herself, she was dressed in a silk chemise and green silk gown – chosen by Leia as symbolic of young love. 

That the Norman ladies were enamoured with her possessions was clear, and there was much touching of the fabric of her dress. She was not used to such encroachments and longed for Kaydel, Tallie, Jessica and Rose to arrive and for Nurse to be well again. 

Around her neck she had worn a ribbon with three keys attached to it. These she retrieved and bent to unlock a particular chest. From this she took out two smaller caskets and unlocked them, opening the lids and revealing her jewellery. Even Leia crowded around as she took out her coronet from its linen wrapping and her favourite girdle – small tablets of gold fastened one to the other by a single link and with a jewel embedded in each tablet. 

Both items were taken from her hands and passed around for inspection. She closed and locked the caskets, placing them in the chest and securing it. She waited patiently for her possessions to be returned to her, Leia eventually placing the coronet on her head with her own hands and assisting Rey wind the girdle about her waist. 

She was ready to go down to supper and meet her lord. 

His eyes when he saw her pushed all doubt away. Their message was unmistakable – she was also loved for herself. He walked forward and took her hand, leading her proudly to High Table. He wanted to seat her on a stool, but she demurred, waiting on a cushion brought by one of Leia’s ladies. 

Their eyes met and they exchanged secretive smiles, his lips parting as he bent his head toward her as though with the intention to steal a kiss. A stout figure interposed itself between them placing a cushion on the stool, uttering a loud harrumph! 

He jerked back as though stung and colour flooded his cheeks. He had forgotten about his household – all interestedly looking on. He glanced at his mother, she was smiling broadly, her ladies huddled together hiding their coy smiles behind their hands. 

He felt his temper flare. If he didn’t need his mother he’d pack them all up, bag and baggage, and be shot of them, but he did need her and so conformed albeit through gritted teeth. He caught his mother’s eye, gleaming with understanding, and knew himself to be in her power. Damn! 

She showed him mercy at the end of supper, though, delaying her progress and that of her ladies to the Great Chamber, allowing him precious minutes alone with his beloved. Minutes spent in kissing her soundly, pressing their hips together, murmuring to her his need of her. 

“Sweetheart, I thought never to see you again except in dreams. Forgive my mistreatment of you. Say you’ll be mine.” 

He spoke urgently, knowing there was much to say and much to be settled before his mother and her interfering gaggle of _women_ came upon them. 

“Love," she was speaking as urgently, knowing too that their time alone was short, "I’ll be yours, but, love, the fault was with me. Poe told the king you wanted me and he filled my ears with lies I ought never to have believed. Forgive, Kylo, please forgive my wounding words. I took no harm from you, but you took much from me.” 

This was patently untrue, and in answer she was drawn into a crushing embrace and soundly and comprehensively kissed. She emerged flushed and flustered and a little unsteady on her feet. 

He was speaking again, “No time now, sweetheart, for this. Only tell me you’ll marry me before a week is out.” 

Hearing him confirm he meant marriage, and soon, she felt immeasurable relief and stammered out her affirmation. The longer she remained in his company unmarried, the greater chance of slanders from the french court alleging sexual misconduct between her and the duke – and what might Poe add? Would her lord forgive if Poe revealed what had passed between them? She hoped not to have to put that to the test. 

She caught at her bottom lip, a look of worry on her face. Thankfully, he misunderstood. 

Caressing her lips with a gentle finger, he bid her not mar their plump softness, adding, “Do you now hesitate? Eight long years I have waited for you, do not deny me my prize a moment longer.” 

She looked at him, puzzled, searching her memory. An image came to mind, a tall teenager dressed in black, always hanging back in a crowd, a long pale face with ears sticking out, exposed by hair cropped close Norman style. She had noticed but not _seen_ , Poe always crowding others out. 

She lifted a hand to his hair, pressing against where such an ear now lay hidden under locks as glossy as a raven’s wing, “Eight years? I think, though, that you did not always wear your hair this way?” 

Was he blushing? It was hard in the torchlight to see, but she was sure of faint colour high on his cheeks. He contented himself with murmuring, “You remember then”, before drawing her into a soft kiss to distract her from the image of his callow, teenage self. 

They broke once more and he pressed her for an answer. “Yes," she replied, "as soon as you can take me to church, I’ll marry you and be proud to call you husband.” 

Once more she was pressed to him and even through his padded gambeson and her skirt and chemise, she felt him engorge and grow. She could never make comparison to his face, but even in this he was the superior of Poe. 

He let her go, putting her away from him and laughing a little self-consciously, “Love, you need to stand off, I must compose myself before my mother comes. I cannot tell it to you why now, but I will explain all when we are wed.” 

She then remembered that she was a shy virgin and lowered her eyes, adding in a submissive voice, “As my lord wishes. I will await my lord.” 

He showed visible relief at her words. 

They had not parted too soon, for the sound of his mother and her ladies could be heard on the stairs, accompanied by squires carrying additional torches. By the way his mother entered he could tell she had hoped to find them dishevelled and discomposed, the better to tease him. 

He left them shortly, squeezing his beloved’s hands and promising to keep her company on the morrow, but he must leave her to make arrangements for their marriage. A kiss pressed chastely into her palm and then he was gone. 

+++ 

He would have liked to have invited all of Normandy to his wedding, but time wasn’t his friend. The french king would mobilise as soon as he heard of her flight to his enemy, even if only to take possession of her lands. He couldn’t commend her enough for emptying her treasury and bringing all her moveable goods with her. 

He sent out direct invitations to the most senior of his counts and seigneurs by galloper, but the most important invitations were to Lando Calrissian and Charles de Melbourne. These were the two men he most trusted in the world, both standing as de facto uncle to him and the only two who had showed unwavering loyalty to him when Anakin passed. 

He wished to entrust his duchess to Lando for safe keeping when he went to war and keep Charles with him in the field. 

He secured his bishop of Rouen as officiant of his marriage by the simple expedient of spreading a rumour he would ask bishop Odo of Bayeux to marry them. 

As duke of Normandy he had the right to appoint or oppose the selection of clergy, the exception being Lor San Tekka, who was foisted on him by the Pope after Snoke’s demise. He had appointed Odo in retaliation and revenge. 

Nineteen year old Odo was a true Norman, (and totally unsuited to the office Ren had appointed him), the twin imperatives strongly manifest in him. Either donning a hauberk over his dalmatic and riding out to subdue recalcitrant nobility or fornicating his brains out. He was a constant thorn in San Tekka’s side, as Ren had intended when he appointed him. 

Consequently, the merest rumour that Ren would choose Odo over him brought San Tekka to the castle to demand his right to marry him to his bride. Ren graciously consented, presenting his betrothed to his bishop with an arm wound protectively around her waist, alert to ensure all courtesies due be paid her. 

Among these happy preparations was a black spot. His mother decided he needed instruction with regard to the consummation of his marriage. 

He endured a good half hour, but put his hands over his ears as she reminisced on how beautifully his own father had deflowered her. 

“Mother, please. Please, stop!” he had begged her. 

“Now, Benjamin, don’t give me that Norman nonsense of thrusting straight in and making your bride bleed to prove her virginity. Believe me, _you_ will know whether she is virgin or not and that’s all that matters. Leave the rest to me.” 

“Mother, name your price to stop talking!” 

“Benjamin, do you want Rey to have a horror of you?” 

No, no he didn’t. He really didn’t. 

He wanted her to seek him out for payment of the marriage due, to crave him as he craved her. The thought that she may shrink from him was both abhorrent and painful to contemplate, so he submitted - as uncomfortable as any son could be, with an image of his parents copulating trying to invade his unwilling mind. 

Therefore, after marrying her and presiding with her over the wedding feast for a little while, he took his wife’s hand and delivered her to his mother and her ladies at the door of the Great Chamber, putting himself in the hands of his squires to be made ready. Clutching his sheathed sword, for he never went anywhere unarmed, and dressed in a loose robe gifted by his bride, he returned to wait patiently at her door. 

It opened and giggling ladies filed past him. His jaw clenched. Then his mother was there, lightly touching his hand as she silently walked past him. He entered the chamber and secured the door. Rey was waiting for him by the hearth, hair unbound, dressed like him in a loose robe. He carefully laid down his sword and stood before her. 

“Sweetheart.” 

She slowly raised her right hand, adorned with the gold wedding band he had placed on her third finger, and his own similarly adorned hand rose to meet it. Fingertips touching first, his hand clasped hers firmly and drew her to him. She moved willingly toward him, nestling against his breast, face upturned to receive the first of many kisses as his wife. 

They broke apart, and he, mindful of his mother’s instruction, spoke reassuringly to her. 

“Love, I will go gently with you this night. I fear this first time will not be pleasant for you or fulfilling. Be patient with me, and in time I will make all right.” 

Her expression was trusting as she pressed closer to him, “Love”, she whispered shyly, and he took a deep breath and walked with her, hand in hand, to the bed. 

A piece of white linen was laid there to capture her spilled blood and they both looked at it, he with anxiety that she would turn from him after this night. 

He caught a movement; she was trying to loosen the girdle which held her robe together. “Here, let me.” 

He released her hand and unknotted the tie. The robe parted slightly and he pushed it over her shoulders watching it slide to the floor exposing her exquisite form. He felt himself engorge as he loosened his own robe and let it fall. They gazed at each other, clearly pleased with what they saw, he most visibly so. 

He reached up a hand and touched one of her breasts, marvelling at the feel of the soft skin and the firm flesh underneath. Gently he traced around the areola and flicked his thumb across the nipple, watching it harden. She shivered her breath hitching. He stepped forward, lifting her as a bride should be lifted and placed her on the mattress, fanning out her hair over the pillow before gently lowering her head onto it. 

As he looked down at her, that soft unfocused look was in her eyes, her face pillowy with the erotic softness he had seen the day he barged into her room. He felt a thrill run though him – she desired him. 

He was beside her in an instant, his lips fastening on hers, drawing back slightly as he felt her tongue press against his mouth, then lowering his head again as he understood what she was about. He felt that pointy little tongue of hers flicking against his, skilfully increasing his need for her. 

He’d slid one arm under her shoulders couching her against him, his free hand cupping her breast, exulting in how neatly it fit into his palm, the ripe fullness of it – she was made for him. He continued kissing her, learning from her skilled lips how to please, whilst massaging her breast and passing his thumb to and fro over the nipple. 

Her fingertips were pressing into his back and shoulders now, she was moaning under him her arousal peaking and he moved his hand down her body to her secret place. She needed to be wet he understood, before he penetrated her, so he searched for the wetness – and found it. 

She arched her back as his broad, thick finger buried itself into the source of her slickness, her eyes hooded, clinging onto him, “Ben”, she breathed. His birth name sounded right on her lips, more than right. He let it pass. 

Her slim hand slid naturally and languorously down his arm to lightly clasp his wrist, assisting him to establish a pleasurable rhythm, to which he added a light drag against her walls as he retracted his finger. Her body was undulating with his ministrations, pressing herself into his hand, the nails of both her hands now digging into his back. She arched again, clamping around his digit and letting out a cry of pleasure – he felt a gush of wet, she was ready for him. 

He lifted himself and settled between her legs, drawing up her knees and parting her folds with one hand, so hard he merely had to press against the wetness to gain entry, stopping when he met resistance, braced on his arms. 

“Rey," he murmured, "wife, draw up your knees for me, sweetheart.” 

She did, and he buried his face in the place between her neck and shoulder, lips pressed against her skin and began to move, penetrating her by increments, helped by the wetness until he reached the barrier of her virginity. He halted his movements, looking down at her, her pupils blown and lips swollen and pouting. 

“Love?” 

Her hands moved from his flank and shoulder, where they had gripped nails digging in, to caress his biceps, “Ben, I want you.” 

That’s all he needed. His hips raised over hers, back bowed as she clung to him once more, something primal released between them. How many thrusts it took he had no idea, but now there was a corresponding tightness in him which was driving him to thrust and retract, thrust and retract, until he felt his seed leave his body and transfer into hers, her walls bearing down gripping and milking him. 

She called him back to her, cradling his face between her hands, calling softly, “Love. Ben.” He was still crouched over her, breath sobbing a little, his passion ebbing slowly away. 

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry. Did I hurt you? Forgive.” 

“It was wonderful”, she replied. Looking down at her face he could see that it had been wonderful for her. He made a sound signifying his relief and pulled out. She made a little moue of dissatisfaction and tried to hold him, but he was already laid at her side, gathering her to him. 

He put his lips to her forehead in a kiss and found her to be flushed. Pushing his hair away from his face, he realised he too was sweating. He bestowed one last kiss on her and rolled out of bed to fetch a cup of wine, which they shared. Her body was relaxed and she drifted into sleep as he held her, massaging her hip. 

When he was sure she was asleep, he once more left the bed, seeing her shift uneasily as he removed the comfort of his body pressed against her. He drew a rug over her and she settled. Drawing on his robe he went and cleaned himself off. There was no obvious blood on him that he could discern in the poor light. 

He was satisfied. The thing he had feared, to not find her chaste, to find that Dameron had done more than teach her to kiss, had been laid to rest. She was his wife, his duchess, and one day he would make her his queen. 

+++ 

Come morning, he reluctantly left her, opening the door and finding one of his wife’s little maids curled up there. She scrambled up, full of sleep, and began to move quickly away clutching her pillow and rug. “Hey," he called, "your mistress lies within.” 

The little maid bobbed her head, “I know it, my lord duke, but your lady mother said to fetch her as soon as you were about.” She scurried off and his brows drew together. What devilment was his mother up to now? Well, no doubt he’d find out in good time. 

He strode off to his quarters.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals with pregnancy, elopement and marital difficulties - all in a medieval setting and to do with dynastic rulership. However, if any of those themes are likely to upset you, best to stop reading now ...
> 
> leman = mistress
> 
> aide-memoire = literally, memory aid
> 
> convenances = the social conventions or mores

When men spoke of Kylo Ren, Anakin’s name, inevitably, was invoked. It was true, in many ways Ren was the image of Anakin, but Leia could also glimpse his father, Han Solo, in him. His expressions of tenderness toward his new wife, for instance, his lips trembling with worry at the possibility she would only _endure_ his lovemaking, wanting a true union with her. 

Han had been tender and it was that which had won her over. Not that she’d compared him with the rough wooing of the Norman noblemen, but the real feeling he possessed and tried to hide under brashness had beguiled her – because of it, risking everything. 

Han had been impulsive too, falling in love with her heedless of the consequences until that day she’d told him she was with child. 

“Sweetheart”, he’d said, folding her gently in his arms, kissing away the worry lines on her face, urging her to marry him and then come away with him. She knew he wanted to escape the grey Norman skies and go back to the warm south and its relaxed way of living – had only stayed so long in Normandy because of her. He had also urged her to come with him to her father so he could ask for her, oblivious of the consequences. 

She couldn’t make him understand the pressures on her, the expectations. Luke was the one who was meant to carry the weight of legacy, but Luke, with his search for spiritual fulfilment, his interest in the occult, in everything that was opposite to Norman culture, had abdicated that responsibility. 

It was a problem, because her father had gone against type and not taken a concubine, or concubines, as most Norman lords did, finding satisfaction solely in his wife’s arms. Dynastically, the unsuitability of his only son was disastrous, and for the future of the duchy calamitous. 

She hadn’t been thinking of any of this as she had lain, daydreaming, in Han's arms, enchanted by how he said their life would be in the Languedoc, where spring and summer came early and autumn and winter came late. What had she been thinking? 

The catalyst for ruination of all their happy projections had come in a double blow. 

Firstly, her father had taken her aside to speak of her betrothal with his preferred candidate of those come to court her, expressing his absolute confidence in her when she became duchess. Then had come the stomach churning moment when she realised she was pregnant. 

Had it not been for that conversation with her father, possibly she could have found the courage to approach him, confess what she had done, but clearly an understanding had been reached (without her consent) regarding her betrothal and marriage. To confess now would be to pass death sentence on Han, either at her father’s hand or at her (unknown) suitor’s. 

Now she had to embrace grim reality, pulling herself out of the pleasurable dreamscape Han had created. There was really only one choice – they must run. 

If she could get them to the lands of the Count of Anjou, Fulk would, she knew, speed their progress through his lands – it was in his interests to see the duchy in turmoil, with the chance of regaining land Anakin had taken from him in war. Anjou was a three day ride and they must do it in two to stand a chance of escape. 

With the aid of the romantically inclined maids who had helped arrange her assignations with Han, she arranged for a sympathetic priest to marry them. Trying not to think of the priest and maids fate should Anakin learn of their duplicity, she waited until her father journeyed north to subdue the Count of Ponthieu who was causing him trouble, riding from the chapel door south to Anjou. 

How had her father got word of her flight so quickly? Had his supposed journey north been a ruse to draw them out? Had her mother sent after him to bring her back? She never found out, only that he had pursued them and caught them, the sound of his coming pulling them from sleep, lying naked in each other’s arms. 

They had sought shelter at a convent, intending to take only a few hours rest while they changed horses, but they had been unable to deny each other and had made love, falling into an exhausted sleep after. The approach of a sobbing woman, accompanied by heavy footsteps drawing closer, pulled her from sleep and she shook Han awake, eyes upon the door. 

It was opened by one of the sisters, bearing a flaming torch, clearly terrified and sobbing uncontrollably. She was dressed only in a shift, her cropped grey hair sticking up as though she’d been pulled through a hedge, and behind her, in the doorway, was her father, a massive figure dressed in black. 

He was changed in his anger, his eyes gleaming yellow like a wolf’s in the light cast by the torch, his lips drawn back in a snarl. For the first time in her life she knew true fear, the sort of fear that turns bones to water. 

It was the sight of the sword which galvanised her, the bright blade turning in her father’s hand to point down vertically and being raised up high. In that moment she knew it would soon be plunged into Han, sat beside her and as paralysed by fear as she was. 

Her father started moving across the chamber, his cloak billowing out around him giving him the appearance of an avenging angel – or something worse. At last she got her limbs to move, tumbling out of bed and taking a few stumbling steps before falling to the ground, grasping her father’s knees. 

“Papa, no, please, this is my fault, my error. Papa, please don’t kill him.” 

She heard his growl of rage above her, and his furious, “Get up, girl. Leave this room if your stomach is so weak.” 

“Papa," she begged again, clinging tighter to his knees, "I’m with child.” 

The remorseless hand of her father pulled her to her feet, “Is this true?” he demanded of her, his voice rasping and harsh, unlike his usual tone. 

“Yes, Papa, it’s true. It’s why we ran. Papa, please, we love each other.” 

She heard her father’s voice above her, sneering, calculatingly cruel as he jibed at Han, “Are you the best she can do?” Han wisely kept silent. 

Her face was turned up and he looked deep into her eyes, searching out the possibility she had lied. “Very well, if it’s a son, you get to live. Now, get dressed.” The grip on her was loosened and she collapsed onto the stone floor. 

She became aware once more of the nun’s sobbing, softer now, as he father paused for her to precede him with the torch, lighting his way. Soft darkness filled the room on their exit, pushed back by the twinkling light afforded by the single rush light set in its pricket on the wall. 

They did not speak, scrambling into clothes and tying shoes, gathering up saddlebags and shuffling into the passageway, walking forward in darkness toward the light of a torch burning at the end of it. 

The hall they entered was filled with the occupants of the convent from prioress to noviciate, all dressed in shifts and with cropped hair uncovered, shivering and wide eyed with fear. Twenty of her father’s knights were facing them in hauberk and coif, wearing their nut shaped helmets, the nose guards of which obscured their faces except for their contemptuous eyes, and lips curled back in derision at the sight of her and Han. 

She was put on a horse, riding at her father’s side on a leading rein. Han’s hands had been bound and he was riding amongst her father’s knights. She knew better than look back, his mistreatment would be worse if they thought it would distress her. 

Her mother had been kind and sympathetic, once they were out of sight of her father’s eye, stroking her hair and wishing she had come to her so she could intercede - subsequent events showed she had overestimated her influence with her husband. 

Her maids had been dismissed, distraught at the shame they had brought on their families with their dismissal, and two older women were now in attendance on her. 

Missing her mother’s daily visit, at three months pregnant, she had enquired after her. Both ladies had been looking particularly grim that day, and she received a curt, “Your lady mother has gone.” 

“Gone? Gone where?” 

They named an abbey her mother had endowed and where she occasionally went on retreat. Getting no more information from them, she assumed such a visit was being made. She assumed wrong. 

A few days later she went to dinner to find a young woman, about her age, sat at her father’s right hand. The girl was personable and finely dressed, and in high good humour, wearing items of jewellery belonging to her mother. Her father had taken a concubine to breed with, and put her in her mother’s place. 

The realisation sent a jolt of shock through her, she was sure she felt her baby move within her distressfully, then everything turned grey and she slipped into darkness. She came round laid on her bed, burnt feathers being wafted under her nose. 

“My mother”, she whispered brokenly. 

The two women were leaning over her. “Pray that’s a boy in your belly,” said one, harshly but not unkindly. “Ay, said the other, and that that chit fails to breed a son from your father.” 

“My mother”, she tried again. 

The two women exchanged glances. 

“Her Grace chose to retire from the world for a while.” 

“Has my father sent her away?” 

“No. Her Grace chose to go, when she was told of your father’s intent.” 

“I must see him”, she tried to raise herself up but was roughly pushed down onto her pillow. 

“You’ve done enough harm," the tone of the woman who spoke was viperous. "If you’d kept your legs closed and done as your father asked, none of this would have come about.” 

The other woman was nodding her agreement, adding, “Ay, a disobedient daughter is as bad as a disobedient son and shameful to her parents.” 

She lay there stunned. Never had she been spoken to in such a venomous tone by any of her attendants. 

Seeing her compliant at last, the two women moved away to the hearth and their needlework. She lay on the bed silently leaking tears, hands on her swelling belly. Her teenage self was not much given to introspection, being impulsive in nature and high spirited. Now though, with forced inactivity, she confronted the consequences of her actions: 

Separated from Han, he incarcerated who knew where. Her mother gone into purdah to escape the shame of being replaced in the marital bed now her child bearing years were ended. Her father changed from loyal husband to ruthless dynast. 

A feeling crept up on her, and increased with each passing day, that it was as though she’d bit down on sour grapes yet it was the teeth of others that were set on edge. 

The months crept by and she concentrated on staying well for the sake of her baby, harried by the two matrons set to attend her, made to eat when food tasted like ash in her mouth, made to rest, feet raised, when she desired to pace the floor, forced to take fresh air when she wanted to hide away. Permission to have her meals in her room had been granted – she could not bear to see that young girl, who was the same age as she, presiding in her mother’s place. 

Three months later another concubine was brought in, her father’s seed having as yet found no purchase in the first. 

Pretending to be in sleep, she heard of jealous quarrels between the two lemans, over dresses, over jewellery, over her father’s favour. Heard of how the court was a place now of unhappiness and intrigue, each girl’s father anxious for his daughter to have first favour in everything. Her father, reportedly, growing grimmer and more short tempered by the day. 

The two women mourned the absence of the duchess as they exchanged gossip before the hearth, casting quick glances toward the bed where she lay to ensure that she still slept. All was order and serenity they agreed when under Padme’s rule, the duke made happy and fond. Now he was riding out more, his authority having slipped ‘because of recent events’ and his subjects grown insubordinate. There was a meaningful pause here, and she guessed they were looking toward her. Her heart twisted with shame and worry. 

When not chastising his rebellious nobility, her father was visiting with grim determination his two concubines. Never had a man looked as though he was enjoying a surfeit of carnality less. Yet still his seed didn’t take and this too chipped at his authority – clearly any fault was not with Padme. 

As she entered her eighth month of pregnancy, shifting about uneasily now whether lying down, sitting or standing, the gossip was of Anakin visiting Padme and being denied her company – returning in a foul mood which lasted for days and caused friend and servant to scatter before it. He also stopped pleasuring his young mistresses, which led to more complaint and demands for gifts in recompense. 

Just before going into labour, the two matrons eyeing her shrewdly and promising her a babe in her arms within three days, her father visited her and she was shocked at his appearance. Although younger than his wife by some five years, he now looked much older, with permanent frown lines between his brows. His full lips had become thinned, their corners turned down as though holding back a lifetime of bitterness and disappointment – he looked dead behind the eyes. 

“They tell me it will be soon”, he began abruptly, looking down at her an unreadable expression on his face. 

“They tell me the same”, she replied. She groped for something to say to fill the uncomfortable silence between them. All previous intimacy between them has been lost, a gaping void in its place. 

“I’ll come back when the child is born," he replied shortly, "if it’s a son.” 

He turned to go almost before he’d finished speaking. 

“Papa," he paused to hear her without turning around, "I’m sorry.” 

“So you should be.” With that blunt reply he was gone. She burst into overwrought tears over his unkindness – she had been going to beg for his blessing. The two women rushed over to her, ordering her to calm herself for her unborn child’s sake. 

Much later, with lavender drops placed on her pillow and more rubbed into her feet, she could rationalise her situation, _had_ to rationalise her situation. 

Clearly, if she was delivered of a son, she was safe and could build on that. If she bore a daughter, she was in trouble. 

There was a way out, though – if she got her marriage annulled. Although marrying Han had reduced her desirability, she knew these Norman lords. To some she would still be worth having, especially as she had proven fertile. Sentiment had no place in dynastic unions, she knew that now. She would settle for respect because of her bloodline and a good dowry. 

The image of Han flitted across her mind and she pushed down her wanting, refusing to revisit those daydreams. She would remember her mother, supposedly loved for herself alone yet put aside for the chance of a more suitable male heir. 

She wondered if her mother felt a certain grim satisfaction. Her father had weakened himself by his actions. After all the duchy came to him by right of his wife, had he not given in to his fears, he could have maintained the status quo and taken a gamble that his daughter was bearing a son – presenting a unified front. 

Now men, powerful men, had the idea of begetting a dynasty founded on their own bloodline to rule the duchy, rather than Skywalker. It was with these lords she must negotiate, her blood adding legitimacy to their claim. 

A day later, all thoughts of anything other than the powerful contractions ripping through her body were forgotten. After a twelve hour labour she held a babe in her arms, a son, and rejoiced. Her father visited the next morning and asked to see him without his swaddling clothes, gazing at him and taking in every detail. Assured that the babe was as healthy as he looked, he turned on his heel and walked out. 

During her ‘nap’ the next day, she heard that her father was negotiating to pay off the two concubines. That evening Han was released and brought to her. He looked thin and had the pallor of one denied the outdoors. Other than that, he was well and glad to be with her, his eyes filling with tears as he beheld their son. The next day they were moved to larger quarters. 

The concubines were gone, land and a potent husband settled on each of them, but Padme did not return. Anakin rode to the abbey she had founded and was shut away with his wife for a day and a night. No-one ever knew what passed between them, but the next day she returned to Rouen perched on Anakin’s saddlebow. 

To be held in her mother’s arms was the best feeling in the world. To hear her whispered endearments caused tears of joy. When at last she could bear to let her mother go, one of the wait women was there, holding the baby out to Padme who took him in her arms and gazed down at him, the softest of soft expressions on her face. 

She noticed, for the first time, how close Anakin stood to her mother without actually touching her. As her mother cooed over her grandson and asked questions of the attendant, she watched her father press against her mother’s gown and snag a fold of it between his fingers as though anchoring himself to her. 

The harsh lines were still etched on his face, but somehow were softened. She realised it was the expression in her father’s eyes, so hungry in his look, gazing at her mother to the exclusion of all else. In spite of all he’d done which would suggest the opposite, he truly loved her mother and was so very glad to have her back. 

It was a while before she had time alone with her mother, her father seemed to dog Padme’s every step now, but there was a day when she was able to sit at Padme’s feet, her mother’s hand carding gently through her hair. 

With her mother back, the court had settled. The atmosphere of intrigue and jockeying for position subsiding. Her mother’s calm presence and sense of self cowed even the most self-aggrandising – her mother knew who she was, what her position and place were meant to be. 

“Are you well, mother?” she asked dreamily, the soft stroking of her hair relaxing her. 

“Yes, daughter, I am well. And you?” 

“Yes, I am well.” 

Her mother’s voice sounded tentative as she asked, “And Han?” 

She stiffened under her mother’s hand and drew back to look into her face – Padme’s eyes were filled with love and understanding as they gazed down at her. She buried her head into her mother’s lap once more. 

Padme resumed stroking her hair, “For people like us", she began, "love isn’t enough when we come to choose a marriage mate. We have to consider our position, our place, how our choice affects the balance of the world we live in. I think you have learned that, a little, no?” 

She made no answer. 

Padme continued, “In Han’s world there is more freedom, I believe. Although I think even there a duke’s daughter would be denied him.” 

She felt her face flush scarlet. 

“You are young and I think perhaps your father and I had expectations which burdened you, perhaps made you want to rebel.” 

She met her mother’s eyes now, “No Maman, I fell in love. I ran because I thought papa had arranged a suitor and I feared to tell him how it was with me. I feared for Han and I see that I was right to – papa has been cruel.” 

Padme sighed, stroking her daughter’s face. 

“Like you, papa was fearful of the future. He has done some things which he thought would strengthen the dukedom, which instead has weakened it – as have you.” 

Looking into her mother’s eyes, she saw not her mother looking back, but Padne Capet-Amidala, Duchess of Normandy, the hereditary ruler. 

“You are fortunate to have borne a son, and may bear more, but make no mistake my daughter, your son belongs to the duchy and not to Han Solo.” 

She burst into tears, her mother waiting for her to compose herself. At last, sniffling into her handkerchief, she got herself under control. 

“Are you going to tell me, my daughter, that you hadn’t anticipated this?” 

She shook her head, miserable with her thoughts. 

“I realised during my pregnancy that I’d been living a dream, but, oh, Maman, I do love him.” 

“I’m sure you do.” Padme hesitated then began again. 

“Compatibility is important in a marriage. Han, I believe, likes to be unfettered by ties, going where he will. You need to think, my darling, would you suit that way of life? I think not. Our duchy is not rich, but I think, nevertheless, you have led a privileged life and would find it difficult to adapt to anything less – such as poverty.” 

She wept again, knowing the truth of her mother’s words, having had time to evaluate all the options during her confinement. 

“Han can make his life here, if he chooses, with you and with his son, but you will be taught how to rule this land, to hold it for your son if necessary. If you wish to leave with your husband, that will be permitted, but the duchy cannot support you if you go.” 

She nodded, now having better control over herself, except for one thing. 

“How can you bear it, Maman, what papa did, putting those young women into your bed? Giving them your jewellery even to your wedding ring?” she pointed to her mother’s bare right hand. 

Padme’s posture stiffened and then relaxed. 

“Papa thought he was doing the right thing. Doing what is customary with us in order to father a son to hold the duchy. I count myself fortunate that your father was loyal to me for so many years.” 

“But Maman," she spoke urgently, unwisely, "to give your wedding ring to such as them.” 

Her mother frowned at her, clearly displeased at her daughter’s sentimentality. 

“Both those girls came from respectable families and had to be recompensed for surrendering their maidenhead, unlike some who spread their legs for the winsome words of a handsome scoundrel who chance blew in with the wind.” 

Her mother’s tone was sharp, her meaning plain. Her daughter’s breath caught in her throat at the thinly veiled insult. 

“We will begin your training tomorrow. We will start with keeping silence and lowering your eyes when in the presence of your elders and betters.” 

An answer was obviously required. She stood before her mother, eyes lowered and answered in a chastened voice, “Yes, ma’am.” 

“Yes, Your Grace”, her mother corrected, rising from her chair and walking toward the door. 

“Yes, Your Grace”, she parroted. 

Her mother paused before the door, not turning around. 

“I threw my wedding ring into the Seine while crossing a ford. Your father once made me a vow which he broke, in spite of my pleadings. If he desires comfort now, he must find it elsewhere. I will never wear a ring of his again.” 

Her mother passed from the room. Her daughter’s mouth dropped open in shock at this insight into her parents’ marriage. Now not comfortable with the knowledge of their secret estrangement, their private conflict which was to be carefully concealed behind a show of public unity. 

Looking back, she always marked that day as when she stopped clinging to her naivety and embraced the realities of life. 

Yes, thought Leia, when men spoke of Kylo Ren, Anakin’s name was invoked too. What a pity Padme’s name was passed over, as were the events of those turbulent few months. She saw her mother’s sense of purpose and iron will in her son. To her knowledge, her mother had never relented her vow and eventually it had broken Anakin. 

This woman, this girl, had the same spine of steel in her as had Padme, she made no doubt, hidden behind the seeming innocence of those wide hazel eyes. It took some nerve to defy the french king and pack up all her worldly goods, taking to the road like a vagabond. 

She had convinced all who challenged her that they were carting goods for the duke of Normandy and must not be impeded. What she had brought her son had undoubtedly made him value her even more. 

She had deliberately dressed the girl this morning in blue – symbolising purity, first scooting into the Great Chamber with the girl’s nurse and changing the barely stained white linen cloth with one which gave better evidence of her son’s conjugal efforts - though the girl’s languorous movements and swollen lips, to her mind, gave better indication that her maidenhead had been well and truly taken. 

Still her mother had taught her to always _appear_ to keep the _convenances_ , it made getting your own way in the end so much easier. She had shown the cloth to the ladies of certain senior nobles. She would ensure these ladies received a generous gift on their departure, as _aide-memoire_. There had been rumours the girl had been close to a seigneur in the service of the french king. Well, there were always rumours; hard evidence to the contrary was the best way to dispel them. 

That her son had no doubts was self-evident. He was currently showing off before his beloved, trotting his horse in a circle as he threw his sword in the air, unfailingly catching it by the hilt, in imitation of his hero, Roland. His bride was alternately clasping her hands together at her breast with anxiety or clapping them in admiration, eyes gleaming with pride and admiration, lips pouting prettily. 

He would join her shortly on the dais to watch the jousting, pressing kisses onto her palm and gazing worshipfully into her eyes as he had been doing all morning – when he wasn’t scowling at that old fraud Lando, who should know better than to flirt with Ben’s new bride. She’d have to divert his attention soon. Ben wouldn’t like him flirting with his mother either, but there was less likelihood he would kill him. 

She would enjoy teaching the girl all Padme had taught her. Of course, she’d have to get shot of some of her old retainers, pack them back to her manor – Ben’s patience with them was wearing thin. 

Still, Rey had brought four very pretty maids with her. It was good to be surrounded by youth again. Two of them were terrified of Ben for some reason, shrinking back whenever in his presence. She would have to cure them of that. 

One of them was clearly carrying a trouble with her too. Leia had noticed instantly her wan look and the chewing of her bottom lip in worry when feeling herself unobserved. Leia was familiar with that look. When the celebrations were done, she would hold out a helping hand to the girl. 

Meanwhile, she needed to divert the attention of that old fool, Lando, who was whispering in the girl’s ear, making her throw her head back in laughter. Her son was walking toward them looking furious and it was bad form to mar a wedding feast with a murder.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've upped the rating because of the content of this chapter just to be sure.
> 
> Basically, this chapter deals with the psychological and sexual manipulation of a female character and her subsequent abandonment and pregnancy. I've kept it as 'light' as possible in the depiction of events, all of which take place in the setting of dynastic politics.
> 
> tendre = literally, tender feeling

She was so scared, so very, very scared. In the febrile atmosphere of the french court, where he seemed to thrive, it had been easy to believe his lies. He would marry the Lady Rey because he must, but it was she whom he loved. Marrying the Lady Rey would enable them to be together, and so she had spied for him, recounting to him all that she saw and heard. 

The coming of the duke had upset him. Her mistress had seemed to be enamoured of the tall Norman lord, even given the brevity of their meeting. The duke’s strong arm wound around her body had clearly piqued her interest in him. 

She had taken this morsel back to him, confiding that her mistress had given a valuable jewel as a gift to the duke, and had repeated the message that accompanied it. She had begged him not to betray her and he’d promised that he would not – and then he had, and from that day she’d felt her mistress’s distrustful eyes upon her. 

He was disturbed by the message. The lady he was pursuing, importuning, was proving capricious, elusive, refusing to submit fully to him, resisting his best efforts to secure her in marriage despite pleasuring her and promising more pleasure in the marriage bed – even before the marriage bed if she would. 

She knew of this pleasuring because he practiced the same art upon her, except with her he would also pull his manhood out of his hose and have her touch it, put her hand around it and pump. Impatient of her tentative touch, he’d cover her hand with his own, gripping hard and moving it up and down his length so rapidly she thought her wrist would break. 

In these last few months, instead of spilling his seed onto their hands, as before, he had begun pulling a ladies handkerchief from his sleeve, spilling into that and afterwards folding it into a sticky square. She knew he pressed these into the Lady Rey’s hand as he bent to kiss it - as tokens of his ardour for her. 

Also in these last months he had tried to persuade her to let him be intimate with her, as a husband would. Some semblance of good sense clung to her in spite of her infatuation for she was a virgin; although her father was but a poor knight, he was honourable and she chose not to shame him. 

He had persisted and broken her resolve with the giving of a ring. ‘Here, he had said, here is _my_ pledge. Now, what pledge will you give me?’ 

She had wavered, wanting to believe. Jealous of her mistress, she saw the bestowing of the ring as affirmation of his true desire for _her_ , that she was truly the One. Oh, why had she given in to him? 

Even while she was surrendering her maidenhead, he groaning and panting as he thrust into her, she was regretting it. He had spilled his seed into her, which he had promised he would not; assuring her there was no chance of a child the first time. She had prayed to the Virgin to let that be true. The Virgin had not heard her prayer. 

Later, sore and still bleeding a little, she examined the ring closely, seeing it was a cheap tawdry thing – truly indicative of his love, perhaps. She had taken steps to avoid him thereafter, refusing now to let the slightest mention of her mistress’s affairs pass her lips, neither confirming nor denying his speculations. 

While her mistress was packing up her household, she had managed to get a message sent to him telling him that there was no chance now to marry my lady, she having gone to wed the duke. She wrote him of her pregnancy and begged he come claim and marry her, delaying her departure until the third wagon left the manor house – then she had no choice but to go. 

He caught up with them two days later in the company of Sir Unkar Plutt, and with a small band of men at arms. Plutt had heard, too late, of the Lady Rey’s flight and had come to retrieve what he could of her possessions. Poe’s indifference was brutal and she could make no complaint in front of the others, not wanting to be shamed in front of common servants. 

They were now on Norman held land, and Plutt meant to abandon them on the roadside. He would not even surrender their possessions to them. A quarrel began between the servants and Plutt, so she pulled away a little not wishing to be embroiled in the violence which threatened. 

A movement caught her eye on the road ahead, and her breath caught and her heart plummeted to her shoes. In the roadway were a group of ten Norman knights, silently regarding the quarrel, mounted and dressed to fight. 

She ran toward them on an impulse, crying out ‘Good sirs, we belong to the duke and these french knaves are trying to steal what belongs to him’. 

Did she want to bring about Poe’s death? Maybe. The Norman knights would certainly do their best to oblige. 

Hardly had her words left her mouth when the Normans galvanised into action. Spurs dug into the horses flanks and a great cry went up as lances were couched. ‘Oyez, ho moy, ho moy, allez, allez, allez’, the hunting cry sounded from ten throats and it was both the most thrilling and terrifying thing she’d ever heard. 

She pressed close to the edge of the roadway as the first knights flew past her, bent low over their horses necks, lances aimed true, and fell upon the french – the very ground trembling as they thundered past. She had heard of Norman ferocity, now she saw it and trembled. 

The servants managed to scramble under the wagon, quicker witted than Plutt and his men, who had no chance to draw steel but the Norman knights were upon them. The heavily laden wagon narrowed ingress, meaning that Plutt, Poe and the men at arms were tightly packed on the roadway. The Norman knights broke through by standing in the stirrups of their high saddles and jabbing down with lance, punching out with the boss of their kite shaped shields. 

The air was filled with the sound of men’s shouts and cries of pain, of horses whinnying in fear and the aggressive snorting of the Norman steeds that bit and kicked to aid their masters, the clash of metal and the crunch of bone. It was quickly over, Plutt had been captured along with several wounded – of Poe there was no sign. 

The oxen were lowing distressfully, the blocks placed against the wheels had held them fast and they were not able to get away from the melee. The menservants now came out from under the wagon to calm and reassure the stricken animals. Attention had shifted from the french to the wagon, specifically its contents, and one of the Norman knights was querying what it was they were hauling – oblivious to the dead and dying lying prostrate in the roadway. 

Pressing her handkerchief to her lips, swallowing down the bile which threatened to erupt from between them, she spoke up; "The duke is to marry the Lady Rey. These are my lady’s household goods". 

He made no answer, but weapons and armour stripped from the bodies lying in the road were piled onto the cover of the wagon and his air was one of possession – of the wagon, of its contents, of them. 

The horses of the fallen men at arms were driven before them by squires, the blocks taken from against the wagon wheels and the oxen set in motion. She and the household servants trailed after, the knights riding behind them surrounding their captives. The dead were left in the roadway. 

She looked at her companions, all were white faced and her mistress’s laundresses were clinging to one another as they walked, too shocked to cry or speak as they trudged after the wagon, any spirit of adventure they may have had quite gone in the face of what they had just witnessed. 

Their destination was a fortified manor house. Their host was not a senior lord then, a seigneur probably, as the duke would only allow his closest allies to build castles. Here they were divided, Plutt and the surviving men at arms taken off somewhere secure, the servants taken to the domestic offices of the manor, and she put in the care of the knight’s lady. 

In the brief time she spent at the manor, she had the distinct impression that, had she not said the wagon and its contents were the property of the duke, it and its contents would never have left the manor. Indeed, when she saw it the next day, the duke’s knights having arrived to claim it – and them, it was obvious a search had been made of it. 

The seigneur had questioned her the previous evening as to whether her lady would pay ransom for Plutt and the men at arms. Clearly uneasy in case the duke would be offended by a ransom being asked of his future bride. 

She was able to assure him that Plutt was an appointee of the french king and a great trial to my lady. Also, Plutt was rich in his own right, being Comptroller to the Countess of Naboo, my Lady Rey. Why, one could ask for a count’s ransom of such a man. 

"Sa, sa, he replied, nodding his head, thank you, little maid, thank you". 

She felt some reparation had been done for her mistress with her words, though she would always be her debtor. 

So it was then, their journey recommenced the next day, she trudging beside the wagon uneasy in both body and mind. What was she to do now? Only throw herself on her mistress’s mercy, she supposed, and hope for compassionate treatment in spite of her numerous daily betrayals of the countess’s private matters. 

Her heart was heavy. Father would be disappointed in her and her mother distraught. What of her sister? Paige had held out for honourable marriage and had two babies now, but more than name and reputation was at stake. Her mistress paid her parents a good wage for her services, this now would cease and cause her parents great hardship. Oh, why was she ever born? 

Sunk in misery and self-recrimination, she did not at first hear herself addressed, but then a kind voice broke through her thoughts. She looked up, turning a wan tear-stained face toward it. A handsome dark skinned man was addressing her, would she like to sit before him? 

He had noticed she was stumbling a little and his horse could easily take the extra weight, she was such a tiny little thing. This was said in the kindest of voices, accompanied with the sweetest of smiles, his dark eyes gleaming with sympathy over her evident distress. 

She hesitated, but she was truly tired. Carrying a baby seemed to have sapped her energy, and the emotional toil of her situation was wearing her down too. She nodded, the sudden rush of emotion in response to his kind concern threatened more tears. Truly, she was no better than a watering pot these days. 

He removed his left foot from his stirrup and bade her put her foot in it; he wore it so long even her diminutive form could easily put her foot in it. 

She boosted herself up and was grasped and turned by his strong arms, settled in front of him on the high pommel of his saddle. It felt good to lean into him, one of his arms clasping her close to his breast. She fell asleep against him, worn out with physical effort and worry, within the safety of his embrace. 

The next morning he put her before him as they recommenced their journey, and the morning of the next day too. His name was Finn, he told her. He had been a child slave, but a Norman lord had freed him. He had entered this lord’s service and been educated and trained for war. 

The Norman lord held land in Sicily, but had journeyed home to Normandy to visit family where he had become ill and died. He then entered the service of the duke. He was not knighted but had hopes to be. The duke had great plans for the future he believed, and he hoped to distinguish himself in battle and gain both land and spurs, he hesitated – and a wife. 

These were fine goals, she commended him, and she wished him well in his endeavours. She hoped too, his wife would be both good and beautiful. He laughed, she would be he assured her. She arrived at Rouen better rested but still heavy of heart, to find the wedding preparations well along. 

The days that followed were very difficult to endure, the duke so fond, so loving toward his betrothed. He was jealous that all courtesies be paid her, acting like a true chevalier. 

Like the ebb and flow of the tide had come the realisation just how much Poe had short-changed her. It came upon her at unexpected moments in waves like grief, and left her teary and sorrowful at her acceptance of his deceits. 

The few bright spots were when she saw or spoke to Finn, which she did daily he being now part of the duke’s bodyguard – a promotion he told her proudly. 

The sight of the duke and his bride being married before the open doors of the cathedral, before the eyes of all the people, almost broke her. 

Instinctively she pressed her hand against her stomach in a gesture protective of her unborn child; transmitting an apology via a caress for the errors on her part which would leave her baby so exposed. She raised her eyes and met the deep brown ones of my lord’s mother. Leia inclined her head and smiled warmly at her and she knew that at least one person had guessed her secret. She blushed scarlet. 

+++ 

One of the benefits of having elderly female retainers about her, her old biddies she affectionately called them, was that in the absence of a child to rear or a man to manage they poked their inquisitive noses into the affairs of others and then gossiped about them. 

Comfortably settled around her at the end of each day, their tongues loosened by the wine she pressed upon them, she learnt of every doing of every person within a quarter mile radius of her – both the exalted and the lowly. 

They hadn’t yet picked up on the little maid’s pregnancy, however, given time ... they _had_ noted her partiality for a certain bodyguard to her son. 

The girl was clearly homesick they had concluded, all nodding their heads in agreement, but the sight of Finn cheered her up marvellously – put colour into those too pale cheeks and sparkle into those too dull eyes. He seemed equally smitten. 

“What say you, ladies, she drawled, shall we make a match?” 

They liked that, being given the sanction to interfere, clucking over the chance to be busy in other folk’s affairs in the manner of hen’s busy pecking over a handful of corn. They devised a strategy. 

Leia must approach the Lord Benjamin, (their adherence to his birth name never failed to set his teeth on edge), and ask him what would he do for the happy couple if they could bring the match off. The Lord Benjamin would incline a generous ear, they were sure of it, being so well matched now and possessed as he was of a loving heart. 

This inevitably led to reminisces regarding said heart and, inevitably, an eventual recapitulation of the occasion when he’d run naked through the castle covered in suds from escaping his bath when he heard his beloved Uncle Lando was visiting – Leia and his nurse in hot pursuit. 

Those who’d actually witnessed this event slyly remarked that it was obvious even then that he’d be _proportionate_ in _all_ his dimensions. Yes, the new duchess was indeed fortunate. Upon this thought, they all tittered into their wine. 

She let them have their fill of ribaldry and introduced a caveat. 

“What if they are not desirous of being matched?” 

This led to more clucking, their heads lowered and pressed together in conference, each proposal measured against its merits, like hens scratching soil with a gnarled foot and examining minutely what was revealed. An exclamation of triumph was uttered, they had a solution. 

She must approach her daughter and beg for the little maid’s services. Their eyes were growing dim and they needed a pair of sharp eyes to assist them in the threading of their needles and suchlike. Then she must approach her son and beg for the service of the handsome bodyguard – they grew weary of all these steps and needed a strong arm to lean on. 

If she played her part as well as them, they’d have them betrothed by the month’s end. _Young people keeping close company was an infallible route to marriage_. 

They gazed at her expectantly. 

Yes, it was a good plan. She raised her glass to salute them; she would speak to her son on the morrow. 

Excited at the chance to be useful again, they discussed the care they would take of Rose. They would work on her spirits; help her wear a more cheerful countenance. They would coddle and console her, spoil and indulge. They would succeed in their endeavour! 

+++ 

What she actually did was go to her son and request outright Rose be transferred to her service. 

“Mother, you must ask my wife for this favour.” 

“No, my son, you must take charge of this as it concerns your honour.” 

He was puzzled and looked it, “My honour? How so?” 

“I believe her to be pregnant.” 

He looked at her a long, disbelieving minute and then uttered one word, “Dameron!” 

She looked at him curiously, “Dameron?” 

He was seething, gritting out the words, “A french popinjay. The french king wanted him to marry her to keep her from me. I heard rumour that he was rogering maids right, left and centre, never did I think he would be so brazen even to my wife’s maids.” 

He asked, an arrested look on his face, “This is why it concerns my honour?” 

“Yes, my son, we must get her away from your wife’s service and into mine. No scandal must attach to your wife through her maid. No hint that those around her were less than chaste.” 

Another expression crossed his face which she couldn’t read. 

“Very well, Maman, but I’d hoped to have you remain with my wife when I go to fight.” 

“Oh, I will still be here my son.” 

There was a studied innocence in her face, whatever she wanted from him it would cost him dear. He waited on her. 

“You have a man at arms who I believe has a _tendre_ for the girl, and she for him. I want him assigned to my guard.” 

“You intend to arrange a marriage, Maman?” 

“Yes, as soon as possible. What manor can you give them?” 

She was breathtaking in her high courage, not asking but demanding a fief from him – no matter she framed it as a question. He toyed with denying her, but as she’d correctly surmised, this matter affected his wife’s honour and therefore his. 

He cast about in his mind. 

“There is something”, he spoke slowly, mulling the size of the property in his mind. Was it too much? He mustn’t be seen to award too much and foment jealousy and dissatisfaction in others. 

“It’s not a fortified manor house but a thatched wooden hall. Fairly primitive, I understand, but something may be made of it with time and energy in the hands of a young couple. There is a mill and orchard, and land to farm, and a meadow. There is a small hamlet nearby too. Will that suffice?” 

“It will be perfect, my son. Let me take the girl into my service tomorrow and then I’ll explain all to Rey. We’ll speak to Finn together when I’ve got Rose settled.” 

She turned to go. 

“Maman.” 

She turned. He suddenly looked strained, Adam’s apple bobbing about nervously in his throat, “Find out, if you can, the extent of Dameron’s encroachments in my wife’s household.” 

“Oh, my son... “, she began. 

“Maman, please.” 

She heard the pleading in his voice. He raised his eyes to her and she saw the doubt residing there. Moving back toward him, she put her arms around his waist and pressed into him. His arms wound around her and he buried his face in her hair. 

“Trust me, my son”, was her simple assurance. 

“I do, Maman. I do.” 

He didn’t visit his wife’s bed that night. 

+++ 

Finn had been raised in the ways of the Normans, so the proposal made to him was acceptable. He grieved for Rose and the agonies she had undoubtedly suffered, and was willing to acknowledge the child she bore as his own. 

He was knighted in private ceremony, swearing the oath as the duke’s liege man. Lor San Tekka then married them in the castle’s private chapel. 

The newlywed couple set off for their new home, a full day’s journey from Rouen, taking Rey’s steward into their service – the elderly knight who had held the demesne before them had allowed mismanagement and neglect which must be put right. 

Presents were pressed on them by the duke and his lady, and his lady mother. Leia’s ladies, in happy ignorance of how matters truly stood, were taken aback by their spectacular success – just a week to bring the whole thing off, unbelievable even for them! – were also generous with their gifts. 

Everyone agreed the auspices were good. 

Leia was able to report to her son that Poe had subverted Rose only, in order to spy on his wife for the french king, disturbed at her evident attraction for him. She didn’t mention the deep flush on his wife’s face as she repeated Rose’s confidences to her, and her inability to meet Leia’s eyes throughout the interview. 

Doubly assured of his wife’s honour, he resumed sexual relations with her and plotted Dameron’s slow, painful demise. 

The day after Finn and Rose left for their new home, Leia sent three of her ladies back to her manor at her expense – her son’s price for his co-operation.


	9. Chapter 9

There is a time and times for kings to go to war. Either in the spring to mar the emerging winter wheat in the field and carry off what remains of last year’s harvest. Or in late summer when the heat is dissipating and the newly harvested grain lies abundant and virgin in the tithe barns. 

The french king delayed his coming until spring of the next year. He did this so as to gather enough strength to crush Kylo Ren to a finish and annex the land that Rollo and his heirs and successors had won, first with shield wall and battle axe and then on horseback with lance and sword. Constantly pushing against the limits of their established borders and taking and keeping what had belonged to other men. 

He came because Kylo Ren had stood down his army and sent his principal allies home – against their best advice. He came because he feared what Kylo Ren could become and because he was afraid of him – and because he was afraid of him he hated him. 

To the north of Normandy was the county of Ponthieu. Successive counts of Ponthieu had lost land to Norman expansionism and, like the french king, feared to lose more. 

To the south were the counties of Naboo, Anjou and Maine. 

Geoffrey was now count of Anjou and had a reputation as a warrior, so much so he had awarded himself the sobriquet Martel – the Hammer. If you looked carefully, (as Kylo had), his victories were against much weaker opponents, such as the count of Maine whose land he had appropriated. Kylo thought him little more than a bully who had been blessed with good fortune. 

Both of these counts were the principal liege men of the king, but there were other, lesser men too. In the end men flocked to the king’s banner from northern France down to the Spanish border, all because they feared Kylo Ren would one day break out of his borders and then they must bend the knee to him and call him king. 

Had they asked him, he would have told them that he did indeed intend to be king one day – but not of France. The Capetian kingship was just 80 years in existence, (replacing the Carolingian line of Charlemagne), and Henry, its second king from Hugh Capet, had as his patrimony a tiny territory in northern France. 

They ought to have known him better. Kylo Ren would not strive to be a mere serf among kings. 

+++ 

When the green shoots of winter wheat were starting to show and the spring equinox was but a week away, the french king mobilised. He had attracted a duke to his banner, Peter of Aquitaine, come to test his mettle against the young warrior duke. The young count of Brittany had sent men too, led by his uncle. Both were important and prestigious allies. 

The host he had gathered was so numerous; he could split his forces and not feel exposed. His brother, Prince de Eudes, would invade from the north east, he from the south east, both moving toward the duke’s capital of Rouen. 

He entered the duchy expecting to feed his men by foraging off the land but found his path denuded of people, fresh water, and meat for men and grain for horses. He suspected that the villagers and animals were hiding in the woods, but quickly had to order ‘into the woods do not go’. Few, if any, returned from foraging there. 

When they’d entered Norman held lands it was if the sun had shielded its eyes with a bank of low grey cloud, which rendered the day menacing and the black of the night oppressive, causing men to cry out in their sleep because of troubling dreams. 

The first morning he’d been woken by cries of anguish outside his tent. Sending to inquire, he was told that a hare had erupted from the ground under the sentries’ feet and crossed their path. The voice of the squire doing the telling had quavered despite his best efforts to preserve a neutral mien – the hare was seen by all as an ill omen. 

For two days they moved forward, somehow feeling hemmed in, and his captains reported a high number of deserters. That could be the only explanation, for there was no sign of the duke and his army. Each man stayed close to his fellow and touched their amulets, if they had them, given by wives and sweethearts and blessed by priests. 

The grey sky glowered over them vast and endless, waiting. As they tramped to the sound of jingling harness and the rumble of commissary wagons, the uneasy snorts of horses and the curses of men, as the breath of each man sounded loud in his own ears it occurred to them what sound they’d been missing all this while – birdsong. 

On the third day the french camp were woken by the blasts from a horn. Hurrying out of tent or bivouac they heard a clear young voice calling to them, ‘Oyez, messieurs, I bring news from Mortemer. Charles de Melbourne and Odo of Bayeux have slaughtered your men. Ten thousand have died upon the blades of these most puissant of lords and five thousand more have fled’. 

The voice called out the message again and the king, looking at the uneasy countenances around him, sent squires to seek out the fell messenger. They returned empty handed. The message was repeated a third time, then all was silent save for the muttering of frightened men. 

He didn’t try to break camp that day, he feared not to be obeyed if he pressed forward. 

Toward nightfall a messenger on a weary horse stumbled into camp, bloody and with garments rent and stained with soot – he smelt strongly of smoke. He recounted to them whole sorry history of Mortemer. 

The king’s brother was not a leader of men, and the army under his command had as a consequence early on developed a mind and will of its own. An advance party had clashed with Odo of Bayeux, who had reduced their numbers significantly before they knew what he was about. The remnant had hurried back to the main body to make report and a decision had been made to ransack the nearby town of Mortemer for booty and wine and the company of women. 

Eudes, scenting impending disaster, had turned with his suite and headed back to France. The count of Ponthieu had tried to take command, to no avail. 

In part the victory of the Normans was down to the whores of Mortemer, whose darling Odo of Bayeux was. They had pressed wine on the french soldiers and willingly sold their wares. It was suspected that the wine had been drugged, for those who had come to fornicate soon passed out and lay comatose. 

No sentries had been posted, the chain of command having broken down, and just before dawn broke Charles de Melbourne, Odo of Bayeux, and his natural father count Robert whose possession Mortemer was, had surrounded the town and fired it, cutting down the french as they fled from the flames and capturing the count of Ponthieu. 

Ten thousand were dead and five thousand were fleeing from before the sword of Charles de Melbourne. 

He had been allowed to bring this word, escorted the last few miles by the Lord Kylo himself. 

"What’s this," ground out the king, "there is no Norman army here." 

The messenger blinked at him, his tired brain slowly turning over the king’s words. At last he understood and exclaimed; "But, sire, you are surrounded." 

At this, Henry Capet, king of France, fell to the ground convulsing, foaming at the mouth.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter depicts a threat to the life of a pregnant woman, and an execution, set in medieval dynastic struggle. If that's a problem ...
> 
> coup de grace = mercy stroke  
> belle-mere =mother in law  
> ma pauvre cherie - my poor darling

That he had been granted good fortune, or divine intervention if you will, he had no doubt. Against all the odds he had kept his life and his duchy, and enhanced his reputation as a warrior. 

He longed to head for home, to his wife who was carrying their first child. He’d left her fighting valiantly to hold back her tears, kissing her repeatedly as he’d held a hand against her swollen belly, assuring her that there was nothing to worry about whilst knowing this could be the end of him. She was in her eighth month. 

He stood beside Silencer, looking back to the direction where Rouen and his wife lay. No, he couldn’t go back just yet. Geoffrey Martel had declared for the king but then used events to feather his own nest, consolidating his position in the county of Maine and making inroads into his wife’s county of Naboo. He must be dislodged and driven back – made to have respect. 

+++ 

She had felt very low when her lord had left her, while acknowledging the grim necessity of his departure. She had wept on first hearing of the french king’s plans for invasion, believing herself to be the cause. He had chided her gently, "No, love, marrying you was the catalyst not the cause. This day would have come sooner or later, best it comes now." 

She hadn’t been convinced, accusing him of patronising her. He had then sat her on his knee and confided to her his plans for their future. Her eyes had grown round with the telling and his words stilled the murmurings of her self-condemning heart. Gazing into her wide eyes, seeing her pretty pink lips forming a silent ‘Oh!’ as she comprehended the depth of his ambition, the sheer nerve of him, he took her to bed and made her forget aught but him. 

Still, she found it hard to part with him as he rode out to pursue his destiny and as she approached her eighth month of pregnancy. Theirs was a love match and she couldn’t bear the thought of being taken by another should his life be lost on the battlefield. 

Leia, of course, had been imperturbable throughout, well versed in the vicissitudes of being a duke of Normandy. The previous ruthless weeding out of dissenters to his governance now paid off as the Norman lords, and the common people, united behind him in common cause – to sell their lives dear in defence of the land entrusted to them by their forefathers. 

With the news of victory at Mortemer, relief had flooded through her causing her to kneel and offer praise and thanksgiving for her husband’s deliverance. 

Then came further news, that the french king had left Normandy. Abandoning his baggage train and leaving each man to fend for himself. This set her on the watch for her lord’s return – until word was brought from him that they must be parted a little while longer. 

Again, there were tears as she wept over these lovingly written but hateful words. These last few weeks of her pregnancy were testing her endurance, and only the warm soothing hands of her husband rubbing her back or belly could comfort her. She needed to hear the soft rumble of his voice in her ear uttering reassuring words as he nibbled at the lobe and trailed kisses down her neck. 

It was the custom for Norman bridegrooms to give their brides a gift in exchange for surrendering their maidenheads. Her lord had given her a chestnut gelding with flaxen mane and tail and a small star on his forehead. Had she not been so far advanced in her pregnancy, she would have ordered him saddled and bridled and ridden out to find her husband. 

Baulked of her desire to join Kylo in the field, sharing in his deprivations and bundling with him at the end of each day wrapped in his military cloak, she became restless and tearful, short-tempered and snappish with those about her. 

It was in this atmosphere then, six days after Mortemer, that a diversion occurred – word was sent up from the gatehouse that a chapman was seeking entry with his wares. 

Leia gave her permission, travellers and chapmen had been great sources of intelligence in the run up to the invasion, and she hoped news from the outside world and the introduction to the eye of new things would ease the frankly unbearable atmosphere around her daughter – everyone’s patience was stretched by her tearful pettishness. Such as now, her voice raised in whining complaint that a stranger must see her like this whether she would or not, that her room would be filled with all sorts of persons laughing and chattering and buying useless _tat_ without thought to her comfort or her child’s wellbeing or their lord’s sufferings in the field. 

Leia hissed through her teeth and fought down the urge to march over and slap her daughter. Instead, giving instruction that the pedlar set up in her quarters and whispering instructions in nurse’s ear – who had become a great ally of hers. 

So it was then that Rey was put in her shift and laid gently against pillows, drowsy with the warm cider nurse had coaxed her to drink, which proved wonderfully soothing. As her room emptied, Leia pulled a rug over her distended form and bid her sleep. 

“I’m sorry, Maman," came the soft murmur, "I know I’m acting like a monster, but I miss him so much." Her apology ended with a plaintive whimper. 

Leia hushed her, gently stroking her hair, “Hush now. Rest, my daughter, think of your child, so unhappy to feel his mama so distressed.” 

“I will, Maman. Will you wake me if my lord sends me word?” 

“Yes, yes, I’ll wake you on the instant. Softly now, _ma pauvre cherie_ , sleep.” 

She watched Rey snuggle down and waited until her breathing calmed, then tiptoed away winking at one of her biddy’s, perched on a stool sewing, who’d been assigned to watch over her. 

+++ 

Something was wrong. She felt it as soon as she walked into her quarters and looked at the chapman’s apprentice. The lad was sickly pale and fighting to keep his limbs under control. Of the chapman there was no sign. 

“Boy, what ails you? Where is your master?” 

The apprentice’s control went and he began to shake uncontrollably, “My master is dead, my lady.” 

A gasp went around the room and Leia’s eyes narrowed, “I was told a chapman was at the gate. How is it you say your master is dead?” 

The boy’s face was ashen, tears falling fast. 

“My lady, that man is not my master. He has killed my master and kept me prisoner. Look!” 

The boy thrust out his wrists and showed sign that he had been bound with rope. Not too kindly, judging by the reddened abraded skin. 

The hackles rose on Leia’s neck, “Where is he? Why are you here?” 

“I don’t know, my lady, except he seeks revenge.” 

The name Dameron flashed through Leia’s mind and she asked, none to steadily, “Revenge against whom?” 

“I don’t know, my lady, some woman who jilted him.” 

Dimly Leia heard gasps and knew them to be from Rey’s maids. She was not alone in her assumption then. 

She turned and hurried to a clothes kist, opening the lid and rummaging through it. She withdrew a long object wrapped in a soft animal skin. Even in her haste, she unfolded it with a sort of reverence – a sheathed sword; a gift from her father from the days when he’d delighted in the exercise of her high-spirited wilfulness, before it brought about her ruin. She turned to face the room and, grasping sheath and hilt, withdrew the sword. 

It came out of its sheath with a sibilant hiss, still as bright as the day the Spanish smiths had forged it. It was the twin of Kylo’s, except for the heavy end which gave greater power to a downward stroke. All in the room recoiled at its grim beauty. 

She worked her wrist, spinning the blade, getting the feel of it after so many years lying dormant. It sang as it sliced through the air and she could feel her bloodlust stir within her as her muscle memory returned. 

She looked to where Tallie and Kaydel sat their faces aghast. “You two, go to the gatehouse, to anyone, bring armed men back with you and take them to my daughter, she is in grave danger." White faced the two girls nodded and slipped out of the room, arm in arm for comfort. 

She turned to address the rest, “Stay here. I don’t want any of you getting in my way.” 

There was a collective sob uttered, but all assented. 

Good! One thing less to worry about. She pointed to the apprentice with the shining blade, “Keep him here”, then she left the room soft footed. 

Rey was pulled from a pleasurable dream by a feeling of being watched, a sensation of being overshadowed. Her eyes slowly opened to see a man standing by her bed watching her. She felt shock on recognition. 

“Poe!” she went to scramble away but he caught her by the wrist. 

“Not so fast, you, there’s a reckoning to pay.” 

His face was grim, the grip on her wrist painful. His eyes travelled over her swollen form and he sneered, “So, he’s put you to work as his brood mare, I see.” 

An instinct told her to remain silent. It proved the best advice. It was not to hear her speak he came, but to unburden himself of his grievances. 

“You cost me dear, you know," he began conversationally, "when you ran to your Norman lord. The king was most unkind to me when he learnt what you’d done, me being his appointed watchman over you. He dismissed me from his service and then, dear lady, my creditors moved in. You see, I’d borrowed on the strength of your fortune and when word got out that the bird had flown... well, as you may imagine, Paris became quite uncomfortable.” 

He now had a most unpleasant look on his face and she could only guess at the humiliations he had endured. She licked her suddenly dry lips. 

“I sought to redeem myself," he continued, "by offering my services to the king’s brother, and maybe the chance of carrying off a little Norman wealth too. Imagine my feelings when that brute de Melbourne fired Mortemer and put the army to rout.” 

He laughed mirthlessly and a shiver ran through her. She longed for Kylo to walk in but pushed that thought away as a false hope. Kylo was miles away and she must keep her wits about her if she was to survive whatever Poe had planned. 

He caught the shiver, “Yes, you do right to shiver, my lady. I wondered what revenge I’d take when I saw you and now I know.” 

She licked her lips again, “Poe, I can give you money – whatever you need.” 

He laughed softly, “And how far do you think these Normans will let me get before they catch up and eviscerate me? I used up all my lives escaping Mortemer, believe me.” 

She fought down her sense of panic, realising at last what he meant to do. 

“Poe, I can give orders to let you go. Provide you with a fast horse if you wish.” 

He sneered at her, “Do you really think they’ll obey you? How naive you are. Your childishness always irritated me. Without it we could have settled our marriage years ago and none of this distressing business would have occurred. Let’s face it; you had all the benefits of marriage from me save this.” He pointed at her distended stomach. 

His look was sly. “Tell me, does your tall Norman knight know of what passed between us? I think not, or else you’d be in a convent under lock and key and your wealth adorning a concubine. Such a pragmatic people, the Normans.” 

He was openly sneering at her now, shifting his hold on her wrist to grasp it firmly with his left hand, sliding his right hand under his short cloak and pulling out a long dagger. 

“No!” her protest burst from her mouth as a shrill scream and she tried to pull away. 

He raised his arm high to stab and kill, but something flashed up and stabbed him instead, in his upper body, under the armpit. 

Her mother-in-law was there, a bright sword in her hand. 

As she pulled the blade out two-handed, she twisted it to cause maximum damage. Poe gave an unearthly cry, a dark stain spreading across his clothing from where the blade had pierced, the dagger dropping from his nerveless fingers. 

Rey pulled her wrist from his slackened hold and scooted as best she could across the bed, her eyes locked onto her tiny saviour, transfixed by her metamorphosis into one of the furies. 

Leia kept momentum as Poe turned toward her, his face white with shock and contorted with pain, she swung the sword in an arc and drew it across Poe’s stomach in a down stroke. He cried out again, high pitched and agonised. Another dark stain appeared on the front of his clothing as he gripped his stomach with his left hand – his right arm hung useless by his side. 

Leia then feinted, jabbing at Poe’s throat. He stumbled backwards and fell. 

With unbelievable speed for a woman of her age, Leia spun the blade so it pointed vertically down, the exact movement her son had used to put to death the guard who had molested Rey, and crossed to Poe whimpering and cursing on the ground to deliver the _coup de grace_. 

Two handed she drove the blade through his heart, it being so sharp they heard it rasp against the stone floor beneath Poe’s body as it passed through. He quivered and then stilled. 

Leia let out a shuddering breath and then put a foot on Poe’s neck to pull out the sword, wiping off the blood and viscera on his mantle. Then she turned toward Rey. 

For a split second, Rey looked upon the kind features of her _belle-mere_ and saw them transformed by the snarl of a she-wolf. Leia’s soft jowls were sharpened somehow, her eyes feral and ... golden? 

Rey shook her head as though to shake her fancies away. When she looked again, her mother-in-law’s beloved face looked back at her. She sank back onto her pillows relieved. 

She had been aware of distant shouts and hurried footsteps coming up the stone steps as Leia had carried out Poe’s execution. Looking toward her door, Lando Calrissian entered a little breathless, sword in hand. 

He looked upon the scene of carnage, taking in the sword in her hand, and gasped out, “Sweet Jesu, Leia, what happened here?” 

“Defending what is mine, Lando. Defending what is mine.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> de trop = unwanted  
> guerdon = payment/reward
> 
> Liege homage was where an acknowledged vassal knelt, stripped of sword, spurs and head covering, and placed his hands between his liege lord and swore fealty to him.
> 
> It carried significant responsibilities, to go to war on his lord's behalf; never to raise his hand against his lord; to surrender a son as a hostage in behalf of his lord, to name but a few.
> 
> It was renewed, year on year. Homage not paid was treated as treason against the lord.
> 
> Simple homage is as depicted in this chapter.
> 
> This chapter also refers to pregnancy, the birth of a child, the death of a young child, all within the setting of dynastic struggle. If this is likely to be a problem for you, best stop reading now ...

When Leia was the apple of her father’s eyes, his hope, his pride, his joy, he had indulged her tomboy side and taught her how to wield a sword. 

Obviously, the lessons were private, (it would not do for potential suitors to think his daughter unwomanly). However, from time to time in the armoury located in the bowels of the fortress, he showed her where to strike, how to maximise the impact of a strike and how to feint and thrust. Finally, he had shown her how to deliver the coup de grace. 

Of course, it was mostly theory she absorbed, but she was of his blood and competent enough practicing forms and sparring with him that he presented her with the Saragossa blade, the twin of which he gave to her son. With her fall from grace, all such indulgences ceased. 

However, her father never asked for the sword to be returned and she had hidden it, taking it out from time to time to oil it and then put it away wrapped safely in its soft skin binding. 

With her father gone, and even with the protection of the french king, attempts were made to do away with her son between the ages of twelve and fifteen (when Ben began to push back) by nobles of overweening ambition. More than once she had crept out of the castle with him to take refuge in some poor person’s cottage to avoid his murder or capture, her faithful maids often bringing her the warning. These women had become her beloved biddies, and it grieved her when Ben spoke so disparagingly of his oftentimes saviours. 

Twice she had used the sword in anger. Once to hamstring a noble who held a struggling Ben in his arms attempting to abduct him, the second when she’d opened up the back of a noble about to plunge a dagger into her sleeping son’s heart – using a down stroke as her father had taught. The sword, being weighted at the tip, cut through the leather gambeson and delivered a deep, debilitating wound. Although he had died later of his wound, she didn’t count it as a kill she had not delivered the mercy stroke but had left him to writhe in agony while she ran with her son. 

The biddy she had left to watch over her daughter-in-law, had crept unnoticed from the Great Chamber and met her on the stairs, providing valuable intelligence. She also provided Leia with a name; Poe. 

When she had been with Han, he had used to pleasure her what most Norman men would disgustedly call _french tricks_ , (regarding them as unmanly in the extreme), using lips and tongue and fingers. He had shown her the extent of pleasure that could be enjoyed between a man and a woman. She had a very good idea therefore, of the sort of sexual congress that had occurred between Dameron and her new daughter. She also had a very good idea what her son’s reaction would be should he find out. 

She had overheard Dameron’s prediction of what Ben might do to Rey if he knew of what had passed between them, and had no doubt of the truth of it. Therefore, when she went soft footed into the Great Chamber, it was with the intention to kill. Dameron must not be allowed to assail her son’s happiness as hers had been assailed – as had her mother’s. 

It had been over a decade since she’d last wielded a weapon in anger and it was safe to say she wasn’t the woman she had been. When Rey had been moved to her quarters, the odour of death now filling the Great Chamber, and she had settled her down, she then went and laid down herself. 

An intended brief respite turned into a deep sleep, until she was awoken at dawn the next day to be told her daughter-in-law was in the last stages of labour. 

Two hours later she held her first grandchild in her arms, a boy who was to be named Anakin. He was rather red and looked like a very old man, but was already wearing an impressive thatch of black hair. Time would show him to be the image of his father except for his hazel eyes. 

Looking down at her sleeping grandson, his eyes squeezed shut, lips pouting in repose in imitation of his sire, a visceral thrill passed through her. Tiny and helpless, the little mite would need constant tender care and watching over. 

She made a silent vow to him then and there; if necessary she would kill and kill again so that he might live. She placed a tender kiss on his forehead to set seal to her oath. 

Her daughter was tired but happy. Nurse had given her a sleeping draught, but she was holding out in order to ask her mother if all was well with her child. 

“Yes, love," Leia bent over her to bestow a kiss on her forehead, "he’s perfect.” 

“Will my lord be pleased?” 

“Pleased and proud. You have done well my daughter.” 

Rey smiled mistily up at her and then sleep took her. 

Leia looked upon her with fondness, and then quietly left to write to Ben his good news. 

+++ 

He was away six weeks from the birth of his son. 

He went first to his wife’s county, impressed by its rich fecundity. His wife was the sole landowner apart from some senior families who held tithed land of her. They proved to be deferential toward him and he was content, therefore, to maintain the status quo. 

Plutt, however, was a different matter. He had heard his wife’s opinion of the man and knew him to be the french king’s servant foremost. 

He visited him and genially invited him to hand over all the items of value he possessed. The sweating man professed poverty, because of the ransom demanded of him by the Norman seigneur. It did him no good, however, Ben had a search conducted and the strong room was quickly found. 

He whistled when he saw the wealth still held by Plutt. Deciding this was largesse which rightly belonged to him through right of his wife, he offered Plutt his life in exile or a quick death. The man left Naboo lamenting the day Kylo Ren was born. 

Scoping out the land, he found the perfect site for a castle and offered it to one of his knights. 

“Can you hold my wife’s land for me?” he asked the man. 

“Ay, _beau_ -sire, I’ll hold it for you and keep all safe.” 

They raised a motte and bailey where the fortress would be built – to be named La Roche-Mabile, for the knight’s wife. 

Ben caught the hungry looks in the eyes of the men around him at his gift to their companion and rejoiced, he fully intended to exploit their covetousness in the months to come. 

He then crossed into Maine. Count Hubert was of great interest to him. The man had no direct heir. In fact, he could choose who he would to inherit after him – say a certain Norman duke, for instance. Kylo had every intention of suggesting it, once he had put Geoffrey Martel in his place. 

Martel was holding the fortress of Ambrières, on the border of Maine/Anjou. Kylo had sent envoys to Martel when he entered his wife’s lands, to say that on such a day he would meet Martel before Ambrières and engage him in combat. 

It was noticeable to Martel’s companion in arms, Duke Peter, that from the day Martel received the Norman duke’s cartel he was nervy and unsettled. Half a day before Kylo was due to arrive; Martel rode out with his bodyguard back to Anjou, leaving the Angevin garrison to fend for itself. 

Duke Peter, seeing cowardice in Martel’s actions and incompetence in the french king’s, turned his face toward his own lands. He would never bestir himself against the lion of Normandy again. 

Kylo arrived at the fortress at the very hour he was expected and the Angevin garrison threw themselves upon his mercy, which he graciously granted, allowing them to take only the clothes on their backs and one horse each – no weapons. 

He then got down to business with Count Hubert, who willed his county to him after his death, swearing it on sacred relics before multiple witnesses in exchange for Norman peace. That was enough for Kylo. His wife had heard right, once a thing was his he would fight to keep it. 

He then bestowed Ambrières on another of his knights. Although the gift was deserved, he caught again the covetous looks among the man’s companions. They could not deny the truth that was their blood, their duke the foremost among them. 

Now he could head for home, to his wife, to his son. 

He had held himself in check when they brought him news of Anakin’s birth, lest he falter in his purpose. Beyond asking if his wife and child thrived, he had kept his emotion in check. Only when wrapped at night in his military cloak, Silencer’s saddle as his pillow, did he reread his mother’s words and allow his longing for his wife and son to bleed through his consciousness. 

He could never honour his wife enough for all that she had brought him. Whatever she wished he would try to grant, and he would make her a queen or die trying. 

When he’d concluded his business with count Hubert, therefore, and garrisoned Ambrières, he turned Silencer’s head for home and urged the Percheron into a canter. 

His men peeled off for their own homes as they headed further into Normandy, all on three days’ notice to mobilise should he need them. 

A day away from Rouen he parted from Finn. He had found the man’s experience of war in Sicily and Outremer beyond fascinating, in particular the use of the bow in warfare. He was used to use the bow in hunting, of course, but as a weapon of war? 

He was also very pleased with himself. The match he’d made to save the little maid’s honour had, beyond all expectation, turned into a love match. 

Rose had borne a daughter the week before Christmas the previous year, named in honour of his duchess and the holy season – Aurélie-Marie, with another child on the way. As he bid Finn farewell and thanked him for his service, he decided to visit them soon. 

+++ 

He saw his wife as soon as he entered the inner bailey, running toward him dressed in a crimson gown, skirts flying. One hand was holding up her gown’s skirt so her tiny feet didn’t tangle in the voluminous folds. 

A spontaneous cry escaped his lips at the sight of her, her name, “Rey!” and then he was swinging himself out of the saddle whilst Silencer was still moving, striding toward her and gathering her in his arms. She smelt glorious. He had practically lived in the saddle for over six weeks and was aware of the stink and sweat of him and his men, but he couldn’t help it, he had to hold her tightly against him, slotting his lips over hers in a deep, passionate kiss. 

He raised his head, breath a little shaky as she assailed his senses in every way possible, looking down at her beautiful face turned up to his with such love and devotion writ there. He lowered his head again and captured her lips once more. 

His voice was a little shaky when he spoke, “Sweetheart!” 

All the longing he’d felt for her during their parting was in his endearment. His need of her, the wanting he’d pushed down in order to do his work and protect what was theirs. 

“My love”, she breathed in reply, reaching up to kiss him once more. 

They broke apart and he stammered out, “Our son?” 

She beamed at him, “Come, come”, tugging at his hand to follow her. 

As she turned, he noticed for the first time her hair was uncovered. He felt a possessive growl begin in his chest and quelled it. He would not scold her for her immodesty. Obviously, in her haste to come greet him, she had forgotten to cover it up, exposing to the gaze of other men what was his alone. That was covetousness in others he did not wish to encourage. 

He would forgive her exuberance, which stemmed from her need of him, and chastise instead his mother over her lax guardianship of his innocent. 

His wife had let go his hand and skipped up the stairs ahead of him, standing before the door of the Great Chamber. Without the hauberk and coif, his long legs would have kept pace with her, but although he could still move fairly swiftly, the chain mail did act as a drag. She was looking down at him, widely smiling and looking ridiculously young, the crimson gown complementing her golden skin. Both her arms had gold armlets clasped around them. She looked a queen. 

He’d reached her and she took his hand once more, leading him into the chamber. His mother rose to greet him and he kissed her dutifully. 

He noticed two new additions to his household; a mature looking woman sat near his firstborn’s crib and a young girl, a child really, rocking it. His wife reached into it, murmuring to the girl to stop rocking and lifted out a small bundle. The first thing he noticed was the tuft of black hair, and then the bundle was placed in his arms. He looked down into the face of his son. 

His child’s face was pale, like his own, his lips full and pouting in repose. He had his mother’s nose, but his ears – poor little mite. He took in the pinkish red of his son’s eyelids and the corresponding marks under his eyes, almost bruised looking against the paleness of his skin, and felt a flash of concern. Then his son pursed his lips and his eyes opened briefly, a flash of dark, no more. 

“Anakin, my son,” he whispered, and then could see no more as his vision blurred. 

A thin wail came from Anakin, and he was aware of a bustling around him and soft comments being exchanged as he blinked rapidly to dislodge the moisture from his eyes. It was time for the boy’s feed. 

He felt bereft as the baby was taken from his arms and given to the woman sat by Anakin’s crib. He understood, a wet nurse, of course. The woman turned her back to him, undoing the laces of her chemise. He felt distinctly _de trop_ \- this was an exclusive, feminine world with no place in it for him, a man skilled in the art of war not the dark arts associated with childbed and child rearing. 

He mumbled something which might be an apology and headed for the door. 

“Kylo!” As they were in company, his wife forbore to use his birth name. She crossed the floor to his side, “Maman is arranging a bath for you in your quarters.” 

He leant toward her, lips brushing against her forehead. He needed time to compose himself and then he can thank her without the chance of him breaking down, such was the strong emotion elicited by his gratitude toward her – for his son, for everything. He moved swiftly away, unaware of her puzzled gaze as she watched him go. 

He was lowering himself into the wooden tub, lined with a linen cloth, when the leather curtain across the doorway moved aside and there was a flash of bright colour. His wife had entered carrying a bundle of clean clothes. 

“Sweetheart," the endearment conveyed shock rather than surprise as he’d meant it to, "what are you doing here?” 

She cast him a disbelieving look, thinking him mindful of his nakedness, her eyes rolling. 

“There’s nothing to see here I haven’t seen before”, her tone was robust, sounding awfully like his mother’s. Well, if that thought didn’t kill his burgeoning pride, which had given a strong twitch as she’d entered the chamber. 

“I am here," she said, drawing close, the long sleeves of her bliaut having been pinned back, "to help bathe my husband.” She paused, as if dreamily imaging something, “Think of me as a conqueror’s guerdon, brought from the harem of the Grand Turk to serve my lord.” 

He detected Lando’s hand in that remark, filling her head with risqué stories in his absence. No doubt flirting up a storm so every woman’s attention was upon him, their minds occupied by imaginings of the implied delights of being his bedfellow. 

Sometimes he thought of Lando being more french than Norman, with his carefully trimmed moustache and impeccably styled hair and ostentatious cloaks. Well, clearly, they needed to have a conversation. He didn’t want his wife’s ears further sullied by subjects she had no business knowing anything about. 

His thoughts had led him to scowl without realising. 

“Oh, really," his wife was huffing in disbelief, misreading him, "all this fuss over me washing your back for you.” 

She had seized a sponge and dipped it in his bath water, soaping it up and attacking his neck and back with it. Yes, definitely getting like his mother. Damn! 

He preserved a dignified silence and they worked together to get him clean. He must admit, though, having her comb through his hair with her fingers as she applied aromatic vinegar to cleanse it, felt very nice. When she massaged his scalp with her tiny fingers, a purr of contentment began in his chest. 

Finally, he was ready to be rinsed. His wife poured lukewarm water over his hair and upper body, and then he stood and rinsed off his lower body and legs, stepping out of the dirty, scummy water. He literally felt reborn now his body was cleansed and his hair cleaned. 

Rey handed him a linen cloth, which he wound around his waist, as she began patting him dry with another. 

He turned his full attention on her now as she worked. He had lost any fat reserves during his campaigning and his muscles were well developed and clearly defined. He stepped closer to his wife, crowding her, amused by her conscientious dabbing dry of his body. 

He stepped even closer, nudging her with his chest. 

She looked up at him, ready to scold, but paused, a pink flush staining her cheeks because of his expression. 

“So, wife," he said softly, "how else will this maid from the harem serve me?” 

She made a strangled sound in her throat, and he grinned wickedly at the shift in her perception of him, no longer a large man-child to be scolded and bathed, but a naked man with a husband’s rights to be claimed. 

“This dress is lovely," he cooed, beginning to unlace it, "but what lies beneath it is even lovelier, and I desire to see it _and possess it."_

He heard her breath hitch in anticipation and grinned, once more dominant and about to conquer. 

+++ 

He had himself to blame for his present predicament. If only he’d overcome the scruple which prevented him from murdering the sole heir to the dukedom when he had him helpless and in his power, and then mobilising his army of occupation and seizing the duchy for himself. 

His senses had slowly returned to him as his servants and loyal nobles led him back to France, but he could see that even with them his credibility as king was diminished. 

Men avoided looking him in the eye when they spoke to him, not out of regard for his awful majesty, but to hide their pity and contempt. 

It had been remarked in the past that his monarchy was a serf amongst kings. The bitter realisation of the truth of those words now threatened to overset his reason. 

The duke had swept all before him whilst he retreated, regaining Naboo, being declared heir to Maine, sending that blowhard Anjou scuttling back to his lands. Maker, how he hated the Angevin. Who but a desperate man would have made common cause with such a shifty person? Well, if he ever did again, Martel would be chained to his side, not left loose to go where he would and feather his own nest. 

Martel hadn’t learnt his lesson either. Ten days after the duke left Maine, he’d come back to besiege Ambrières, truly believing he could take it back. 

The garrison had sent out fresh meat and wine to the besiegers, making mock of them. They knew their duke would come, and he did, swiftly and in force. That dog Martel had scuttled off again, barricading himself in his fortress whilst all of Anjou burned around him and the duke annexed more land, capturing Martel’s principal ally, Geoffrey of Mayenne, and sending him to Rouen in chains. 

Bitter bile came up into his throat – and now he must negotiate a peace with that devil’s spawn, and cede liege honour to him, the one thing that held him in check. Damn him, damn him, damn him! 

He awoke some hours later having been put to bed. He’d experienced another seizure his doctors told him. If he didn’t have a care, he would undermine and sap his vital energy. He must meditate and embrace calm, was their best advice, and swallow the vile medicines they poured down his throat. He lay back on his pillows, exhausted, turning past events over in his mind. 

It had all begun so well. He had been betrothed to the daughter of the Holy Roman Emperor, Charlemagne’s heir, but before he could take possession of the little maid to have her brought up at the french court she had died, aged nine years. Four years he had wasted, he being twenty six when she passed. 

He had married quickly, a french noblewoman, but after ten years of marriage all he had to show was a useless daughter, whose birth had taken her mother. He had thought she could be useful to tie the duke to him through a marriage bond, but just when she was ripe to be given, she too had passed. 

It had taken nearly eight years after the death of his first wife to find another – the church insisting on six degrees of consanguinity. He had had to take a wife from a far country, where her brother was absolute ruler, a wife who despised his country, his court, and now him. Still, she had given him a precious son, six years old now, and then a second. 

Of course, the duke’s wife was wholly his, running from him, her king, to that hell born living embodiment of the devil incarnate. He felt his limbs start to spasm and fought to control himself, hearing worried whispering somewhere in his room. 

She’d given him her body, her wealth and a precious son. It was rumoured she was already pregnant again. Of course, she would be - anything to torment him. 

That mother of his was holding all fast too, while he must carry the whole burden of seisin alone, without a helpmeet. Damn her too. 

His doctors were here again, his servants propping him up whilst they administered yet another draught. He could feel himself becoming drowsy as they laid him down, some sort of sleeping draught, he supposed. 

Well, he’d give what was asked, set his seal to it too, but it wasn’t over. He swore on his son’s life, it wasn’t over, not yet, not yet, not yet ... sleep took him. 

+++ 

They sealed the accord in September, in the week before St. Michael’s Mass. They met on neutral territory, the duke flanked by Lando Calrissian, Charles de Melbourne and that stain on holy mother church, Odo of Bayeux. 

Lor San Tekka, bishop of Rouen, had acted as intermediary and conducted a Mass before they set their seals, and, yes, the duchess was pregnant, due in the spring. 

It ought to have overset him, dealing with this new reality, but his doctors had dosed him with some sort of medicine to keep him calm and composed. 

Its efficacy was tested when he rescinded liege homage and received simple homage instead from the duke; a mere promise not to attack him, taking up arms against him only in self defence, spoken standing and fully armed – a once in a lifetime verbal promise, not to be reaffirmed year after year to acknowledge vassalage. 

He felt the now familiar sensation of bile rising in his throat and closed his eyes and meditated on the revenge he would take, in order to calm himself. As he rode away he repeated his vow silently to himself, using rote as if reciting his catechism, “This isn’t over. I swear on my son’s life, I will be avenged.” 

“Do you think he’ll keep his word?” Lando asked as the king rode away. 

De Melbourne let out a rough guffaw,” Na na, not a chance. We’ll see him again, next time with an army at his back.” 

They turned and looked at Kylo, gauging his reaction. 

He gave them a wide grin, showing teeth, “I’m counting on it.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could have worked at the conclusion a little better in this chapter, but I'm tired and have a busy week upcoming.
> 
> This chapter deals with the rewarding of a female character in exchange for a sexual favour and a strong reaction from a female in response to perceived sexual misconduct - set within dynastic struggle. If this is a problem for you, best stop reading now ...

He moved his family from Rouen to Falaise after Michaelmas, his pregnant duchess stubbornly refusing to be parted from him unless absolutely necessary. It was not what he wanted, but she scowled so ferociously and promised to follow whether he would or no, he capitulated – he had dirty business to conduct in Falaise and wanted to keep her away from it. 

The bishop of Falaise, Mauger, was loyal to the french king and he wanted no intelligence of his future manoeuvring getting back to Henry through him. Also, there was a rumour he was preparing to make trouble over his marriage, citing a common ancestor within the six degrees of consanguinity and petitioning the pope for an annulment. 

It would be a fruitless exercise, and the prospect bothered Ben not one whit, however, it would distress his wife, and that wasn’t allowed. So he moved his household to the fortress at Falaise, inviting his bishop Lor San Tekka to accompany him, and starting to plot. 

Mauger was enamoured of a freeman’s daughter, he had been reliably informed, she drove her father’s swine to Falaise market every Saturday, but she, a most obliging girl usually, had taken him in contempt and had refused to become his mistress. 

Ben met her by prior arrangement in the fortress garden, lovingly tended by its chatelaine, to establish whether that was her final word on Mauger’s offer. Her soft, sweet face hardened and a flinty expression replaced the doe-eyed innocence of her eyes. Arlette, for that was her name, prepared to bargain hard and sell her virtue (such as it was) dear. 

He made the mistake of recapitulating the terms agreed between them as they stood in the gateway of the garden, about to part. He also failed to check if anyone was about in the kennels which stood near the garden, two little maids belonging to his wife, for instance, who had been playing with the adorable puppies of a Talbot bitch. Who had, moreover, clung to their mistress when he had come to punish her, their tiny hands having to be prised from her robe, loyal to her. 

He may also have made the mistake of allowing himself a weak moment when Arlette requested a kiss to seal their accord, dipping his head not once, not twice, but thrice to taste those cherry red lips of her and squeezing her breasts for good measure. 

He may also have bussed her as she walked away, giving him a sultry backward look, swaying her hips suggestively. 

He certainly crossed the courtyard with a spring to his step whistling a jaunty tune, quite forgetting to look about him. 

Tallie and Kaydel crept out the door of the kennels; arms wound around each other’s waist, for they were the dearest of friends, and gazed after him their little faces scrunched up in disgust. They looked at each other, a silent inquiry passing between them, and then nodded their heads in unspoken agreement before scuttling off to their mistress. 

He became aware of his wife’s displeasure with him when he later entered their quarters, to find it empty of all the usual persons except for his wife. She had a whip in her hand, he noticed, the sort huntsmen used to discipline recalcitrant hounds. He wondered at it, that and the very determined expression on her face. 

He was not left wondering long. He surged forward, his usual greeting on his lips, when she cracked the whip and lashed out with it. Fortunately he was wearing a padded gambeson with horn scales on the shoulders, but even so! 

He retreated – she followed. For a woman as scared of hounds as she and who wanted nothing to do with them, she nevertheless seemed skilful in wielding a whip designed to punish them. 

He could back up no more – she had him pinned against the door. A wayward flick of the whip caught him on his face. He put a hand up and it came away with blood on it. She was striking again. This time he put out a hand to catch at it, coiling the lash around his forearm and tugging it from her. 

If he thought this would stop her assault, he was very much mistaken. She seized a copper jug - the sort used to carry hot water for bathing, and moved in to belabour him with it. 

Now she was at close quarters, he was able to use his height and reach to catch at her arms and hold her off. Denied her weapon of choice, she brought her knee up and made contact with the place where he lived. Again, the padded gambeson absorbed a lot of the blow, but he felt the full force of her intent. 

“You little hellcat," he gasped out, pinning her arms to her side and pressing her to him, "what have I done to deserve this rough treatment?” 

She had been scowling furiously the whole while, and at this her eyes, suddenly gone very green with their golden flecks very evident, widened with disbelief before narrowing into a furious glare. He, Maker forgive him, felt himself engorge and wanted nothing more in that moment than to take her to bed and ravish her. 

“How dare you," her voice was low, spitting out the words, "how very dare you ask that of me? How dare you stand there playing the innocent, when you come fresh from publicly boning your concubine? Am I to be replaced then? I think not, m’sieur, I’ll see you dead first!” 

Relief that she was entirely mistaken flooded through him, followed by dismay at her hateful worlds. Where had his loving life’s partner gone? He didn’t recognise this spitting virago in his arms - he must work to get his sweetheart back. 

He put his wishes into words. 

“Sweetheart, you are entirely mistaken. I have done nothing to earn your reproaches. Come, cry friends. Where is my sweet girl, he coaxed, my sweetheart? Give her back to me.” 

He had loosened his hold on her, clasping her around her expanded waist. She was trying to pull away from him, her hands gripping his forearms. 

She stopped struggling to free herself at his words and answered him, voice deceptively soft. 

“So, you did not kiss that slut you were in the garden with?” 

He shrugged his shoulders, deciding not to insult his wife’s intelligence with an outright denial, choosing instead to obfuscate. 

“Arlette, you mean? Oh, a polite farewell to a loyal subject. No more.” 

“Oh, I see - a loyal subject. Is it customary to squeeze a loyal subjects breasts while you work your lips against theirs _three times_? Tell me, what service did this loyal subject render you to earn such a singular _polite_ farewell?” 

Good grief, who was telling her all this? 

“Well, my hand may have brushed against her breasts accidentally. They are rather full, you know.” He couldn’t quite suppress the giggle evident in his voice at his own joke and the memory of the feel of Arlette’s breasts. 

Clearly, he was making a lot of mistakes that day, because in answer to his wit the iron fist of his wife hit his nose causing it to bleed, and to see stars where it connected with his eye. 

He lurched back, letting go of her. He heard quick footsteps and then the slamming of a door as he groped for a cloth to stem the bleed. His eye throbbed. 

+++ 

He caught the furtive glances, the speculative stares. Who had blacked his eye and marked his face? Did they still live? 

He suppressed a smirk, if only they knew. He was content with his punishment at her hands for he ought not to have tried her temper with a juvenile attempt at humour intended to deflect her jealousy, for she had been jealous – was jealous still. 

In company she was polite, deferential even, toward him, but every now and then he intercepted a look which told him she still wished to kill him for sleeping with another woman – as she believed. She’d also stopped sharing his bed. 

It was best to let her have her way, for now, until he’d settled with Mauger. He knew his wife, she had a thirst only he could quench. Once his business was done, he’d take her back to Rouen and keep her busy in his bed for at least a week. That thought caused him to maintain the spring in his step. 

Come Saturday, he visited Mauger accompanied by Walter, seigneur of Falaise, and Lor San Tekka, ostensibly to confirm if the rumour was true that he was going to raise objections with the pope regarding his marriage with the Lady Rey and prepared to point out the flaw in his argument. 

The bishop was in his private room, they were told, at his devotions and could not be disturbed. It was hard to deny admittance, however, no matter the bishop’s instructions, when the Iron Duke himself was gripping your shoulder and rocking you gently to and fro on your heels. The cowed usher led them to the chamber where the ‘oh so devout’ Mauger was on his knees before his god. 

They found him, however, sequestered with someone across his knees. 

Arlette had done him proud. Mauger was sat on a stool dressed only in his shirt, Arlette straddling him, her wondrous bosoms on display and bouncing up and down in tandem with her rhythmic bouncing up and down on Mauger’s cock. 

Kylo managed a look of shock, which was unconvincing in comparison to Walter and Lor San Tekka’s frankly slack jawed horror at the sight before them. Fortunately, no-one was looking at him. 

Mauger pushed Arlette off of him. It might have been better to let her finish her work, for Mauger’s cock was now exposed for all to see, erect and purple, straining against his shirt and glistening with Arlette’s essences. He looked neither worthy nor credible as a prince of the church. 

Some notion of this must have permeated his consciousness because he looked down at himself and pulled the tail of his shirt over his member – an action which added nothing to his dignity. 

Kylo crossed rapidly to Arlette, shielding her from the other occupants of the room with the breadth of his body. 

With trembling fingers, she was fastening the ties of her chemise to conceal her bosoms. Her eyes flicked up to his and then were quickly lowered. It was enough; he’d seen a similar look in young knights and squires on the cusp of knighthood come from their first kill. He cast his cloak around her, fastening it securely and drawing the hood over her head to conceal her features. 

He put an arm around her and began to draw her from the room. Walter’s eyes strayed briefly to them and he saw a flash of comprehension in them, quickly suppressed. Walter diplomatically turned his gaze back to contemplate San Tekka, currently tearing into Mauger by enumerating the many faults which made him an unfit priest and a disgrace to mother church, his voice getting angrier and louder by the second. 

Kylo guided Arlette out of the room, grateful for Walter’s discretion and San Tekka’s absorption in his task. 

They walked quickly and silently until they reached the outer door, he keeping his arm around her the whole while, feeling her lean into him. They paused before exiting and he raised her face to his. She was still pale and in shock, but something of her natural spark had returned to her eyes. 

“I’ve arranged an escort to take you home," he had lowered his voice to a quiet rumble, "and they will stay with you at my expense until Mauger is exiled.” 

She nodded, standing passively with his hand curled around her chin. 

“I will send my steward to you Monday with the charter confirming your possession of the manor of Aubigny – from this moment on you are the seigneur de Aubigny.” 

She licked her lips, managing another tiny nod in acknowledgement. 

“I have one stipulation," he continued, "whomever you decide to marry has to be acceptable to me. Send your suitors to me, Lady Aubigny, to beg for permission to wed you. If you marry without my permission, all is forfeit.” 

At his use of her title, something like animation returned to her. She nodded again and he removed his hand from her chin, reaching for the door latch. She reached out and covered his hand with her own, stilling it. 

“I am grateful, my lord, for your favour”, her voice was pitched low. 

“If, she drew a deep breath, _if_ you were to visit Aubigny, you would always be sure of the warmest of welcomes.” 

She squeezed his hand, meeting his eyes with something of her previous bold look. There was no mistaking her meaning. 

“I thank you for your kind offer, my lady," he replied without hesitation, "but as my wife keeps me on a tight leash," he indicated his scar and blackened eye with his free hand, "that will not be possible.” 

At first she didn’t make the connection, eventual realisation causing her to suck in her breath with shock. “Your wife did this? I had thought... “, her voice trailed off, she was clearly taken aback by his revelation. 

“You thought I’d been fighting," he finished off. "No, someone tittle-tattled to Her Grace about our kiss. This was the result.” 

He eyed her humorously and continued, “So you see, my lady, I must decline any further offer of your company. Her Grace would always find a use for me, I think, whereas you... “, he trailed off, making a motion across his throat. 

Her eyes were round with wonder at his frank confession, and then warmed with amusement as she took his meaning. With a soft chuckle she replied, “I see it would not do to anger Her Grace.” 

“Indeed not”, he replied gravely, loathe to further discuss his wife now he’d made his point. 

He nodded toward the door, “Shall we?” 

She removed her hand, nodding, and he unfastened the latch. 

Four men at arms were standing a little way off. He beckoned one of them over. 

“Robert, here is your charge – Lady de Aubigny. She is to be kept safe in your care until I send word and recall you to Rouen.” 

The man bowed to Arlette. “Yes, Your Grace, all shall be as you ordered.” 

Ben turned once more to Arlette, taking her hand and kissing it. 

“Lady Aubigny, if I can be of service to you, do not hesitate to send me word and I’ll come on the instant.” 

“Thank you, Your Grace," she stammered, suddenly overcome with the realisation of her new status, "you are most kind.” 

He nodded to Robert, who swung himself into the saddle. 

Ben carefully swaddled Arlette in his cloak and lifted her up into Robert’s waiting arms, who settled her on his saddlebow. 

Moving back into the doorway, he watched the escort move off disappearing from sight, and then, his expression hardening, turned and retraced his steps to Mauger’s chamber. 

+++ 

It was wonderful, he thought, as he entered the chamber where his wife and her ladies were seated, how women banded together in common cause against men who were perceived to have injured one of their own, him for instance. 

Even little Clémence, at seven years old, the daughter of a poor knight who had petitioned his wife for a place for her at her court, turned a scowling face toward him as he entered the room and stood beside the open chamber door. 

It must be instinctive in women, he supposed, if even the limited understanding of a seven year old could take umbrage at him for kissing such a one as Arlette and provoking violent jealousy in his wife. Clearly, he was deep in enemy territory now and must keep his wits about him. 

“I wish to have private speech with Her Grace”, he announced, hoping they would take the hint as he stood beside the open door. 

As one, they turned their faces toward his wife, each one of them hunching a shoulder and ignoring him – even tiny Clémence. 

He clapped his hands, done with diplomacy, “Out, out!” 

No response. It seemed their sympathy for his wife had blunted their fear of him; they were as resolute in resisting him as a shield wall. 

He met his wife’s cold gaze and shot her a look in return that left no doubt of his intentions if he was not obeyed. 

She capitulated, “Ladies, His Grace wishes to have speech with me, kindly leave us.” 

There was something of sufferance in her tone. His posture stiffened to hear it. 

Pity for her practically rolled off them as they all knelt in front of her to kiss her hand before departing. Clearly, they thought him a monster. 

In his son he found his only friend. As Anakin was taken out of his crib, his arms began flapping as he spotted his sire, smiling and gurgling and making incomprehensible sounds of welcome. The wet nurse paused in front of him and he put out a finger for his son to grip in greeting, Anakin pulling it toward his mouth to chomp on – teething had begun. 

“Come, Anakin”, a prissy little voice said, that of Clémence, whose job it was to rock his son’s crib and whose playmate she would become. 

Ben winced; he was in lonely country indeed! 

He thought Tallie and Kaydel’s demeanour as they passed him telling. Where Jessica kept her eyes glued to the floor, Tallie and Kaydel, arms around each other’s waists as was customary with them, put their noses in the air. He believed he had a good idea who had run to his wife mouthing tales. 

The last of them gone, he closed the door and secured it, walking to a vacant chair and sitting down. 

“Come here, wife”, he softly ordered. 

There was a moment he thought she would defy him, but he sent her another look and she came and stood before him – albeit with lagging feet. He pulled her onto his knee and wound his arms tightly around her. 

“There are some things I have to do, have done," he began, "which I want you to remain in ignorance of. I don’t want you to be tainted by them, or to worry your conscience over them. It was such a thing which brought me to Falaise. If you recall, I wished you to remain in Rouen, well out of it.” 

She gave a reluctant nod, hearing the truth of his words but still not wanting to acknowledge the justice of them. 

“Arlette was never a threat to you. I gave in to curiosity, but that’s all it was and that’s all it ever would have been. 

She was silent, hands twisting nervously as she perched on his knee. 

Wife, I miss you”, he whispered. 

She gave a little sob, “You have made me very unhappy.” 

“No," he corrected her, "you have made yourself unhappy listening to tale bearers without talking to me first – or even making the choice to ignore what was told with spite," he added as an afterthought. 

His tone was light, but with the hint of a reproach in it. She obeyed her instinct and went for conciliation. 

“Ben, being like this," she pressed her hand to her stomach, "made me anxious over your love.” 

He had a purr in his voice now; she was playing her part just as he had hoped. 

“I love you more when you are like this”, he placed a hand on her stomach, moving it up to gently cup a breast. 

“Let me show you how much I love you”, he was using his best persuasive voice, lips moving across her jawline and neck. She turned in his embrace and his lips found hers. 

+++ 

A very tired duchess walked with tripping steps to Mass the next day, supported on her husband’s arm and trying to keep up as he covered the ground with a distinct spring to his step, proving solicitous of his wife’s stifled yawns throughout service. 

At dinner he placed choice morsels of food on her plate, her sleepy gaze not extending farther than the edge of her platter. He would have sat her on his knee and hand fed her, except for _les convenances_... when he got her back to Rouen, however. 

He guided her tottering steps up the stone stairs to her room and kissed her soundly, her body melting into his as much as it was able given her condition, her lips softly working against his, her hands fisting his hair. 

He broke the kiss, looking down at her, his eyes dark and burning, “Wife I must leave you for a little while.” 

“Mmm”, she replied. 

He laughed softly, unwinding her coif and releasing her chestnut hair. It tumbled over her shoulders and down her back. He couldn’t help but take a hank of it, rubbing against his cheek and breathing in the soft scent of it. She clung to him, swaying slightly with sleepy exhaustion. 

He laughed softly again, lifting her and carrying her to their bed. Settling her against the pillow, he removed her shoes and covered her over. 

“Until later, wife”, he whispered. 

“Mmm”, her voice trailed away. 

He looked down at her fondly. True, he’d worked her hard, into a state of delirium almost, but he had gone several days without her and she hadn’t complained of his need to have her, not really - only uttering little whimpers and groans of protest as he’d called her from sleep, which he’d converted into breathy sighs and sharp little cries of his name as he brought them both to ecstasy. 

He would go and negotiate with Lor San Tekka about appointing the new bishop of Falaise and then he’d come back and they could do it all again. Meanwhile, she needed her rest. 

He turned and trod quietly out of the room. 

She could hear distant murmuring and familiar words and names spoken. Her sleep addled brain began to make connections, to become interested in the topic of conversation her maids were conducting in low, scandalised tones. 

She sat bolt upright on the bed, “What is that you were saying about my lord duke and the woman?” 

Her maids were a little reluctant to impart the latest gossip, but by entreaties and, finally, a direct order, she got the story from them. 

She sank back on her pillows. Was this then, one of the things he didn’t want to taint her with, inveigling a woman to seduce a senior churchman in order to be shot of him? 

It was appropriate, she thought, that her husband’s heraldic insignia was of two golden lions. There was something of the wild beast in his nature. 

As he’d stood at her door yesterday, demanding privacy, she had seen the gleam of the predator in his eyes when he thought his will would be crossed and had deemed it wiser to grant his request. To have refused him would have been to invite calamity, however much she still wished to punish him for his transgression. Clearly, it was best to stay on his good side. 

To that end she raised herself up again and forbade her maids to gossip anymore about the matter, ending with the reproof, “His Grace would not like it.” 

They subsided at once.


	13. Chapter 13

The hall was timber framed and built long and low, the thatch grey with age except for intermittent patches of golden reed where repairs had been made and the incongruous contrast of a newly thatched ridge line. 

He was welcomed with a stirrup cup of cider, this year’s pressing, and offered up by a heavily pregnant Rose as he sat on Tie’s back in the hall’s garth. He thanked her as he handed the cup back, swinging himself out of the saddle – he had forgot how tiny she was. 

A squire stood ready to take charge of Tie and stable him. He handed over the big roan horse with a friendly nod and the lad blushed scarlet. He grinned inwardly; the youth reminded him of his younger, callow self, blushing whenever anyone of importance took notice of him, incoherent before women and girls – especially girls who teased him about his ears. 

It was this teasing which had made him grow his hair longer, rather than sporting the customary short back and sides – with neck shaved clean. Girls had discovered that his ears, which were large and unfortunately stuck out, turned bright red under their teasing and loved to deliberately make sport of him as a consequence, sniggering behind their hands as he _burned_. 

Uncle Lando had taken him to one side after one particularly mortifying episode and encouraged him to break the mould, as he and Uncle Chewie had, and grow his hair longer. So he had. With his curls covering his ears and the grim expression he had cultivated, the teasing had petered out and then ceased. 

His wife _loved_ his ears, and liked nothing better than to stroke them as he lay at her breast, making him purr with absolute pleasure. He could cut his hair now, now he was married, because his little wife would scratch the eyes out of any wench who mocked him - that, or make play with her tiny iron fists, little hellcat that she was. Anyway, she also liked to card her fingers through his hair and tickle his neck where a particularly tight curl nestled at the nape. So his hair remained long. 

Finn stepped forward to welcome him, inviting him to enter his home and take further refreshment. He crossed the threshold, taking note of the beaten earth floor and the stone hearth in the middle of it. Looking up, he saw that the heavy beams of the roof were blackened by smoke from the open fire. He had brought an escort of only four, along with attendant squires, and was glad of it – along with Finn’s household, it would be a tight squeeze. 

Désiré-Jean, his wife’s former steward was moving toward him and he gripped his forearm, murmuring a greeting and that he’d brought supplies with him. He saw a flicker of relief cross the man’s face as he bowed his head in greeting and then took his leave to manage their disbursement. Kylo glanced after him speculatively; he wanted the man back to manage his wife’s county and must get to have private speech with him. Was he imagining it, or did the man not look completely happy here? 

There was more bustle behind him as two squires came in, one carrying a cloth parcel tied with twine, a gift from his wife to Rose, the other bringing in his leashed hounds Roland and Maud. They’d run free on the journey here, being put on the leash as they’d approached the manor. Kylo was glad to be spending time with them, at home they now lived in the kennels, his wife being so very afraid of dogs now since _that day_ and not comfortable with them near her, despite his best assurances. Rose had no such qualms. 

He handed Rose the parcel, obediently reciting the elegant words his wife had charged him to speak as she took possession of it. It comprised of needles and threads and suchlike, items his wife assured him were essential to womenfolk and would be most gratefully received. Rose blushed and begged him to give ‘my lady’ her most grateful thanks. He nodded, walking farther into the hall assessing the value of his gift to Finn. 

Assuredly, the hall was well built and of solid construction. It looked as though it had been swept clean from top to bottom and was kept in good order. At the back were a few steps leading to an upper chamber, which offered a degree of privacy to the married couple. Underneath it, benches and trestle and suchlike were stored, freeing up floor space between uses. 

Yes, he’d not given too much, but not quite enough either. Good, Finn would be keen to obtain his favour in the hope of further reward. Sa sa, this was good, this was very good. 

He turned as his knights trooped in and received a welcome from their host. His hounds were unleashed now and pressing against his legs, wary of this strange new environment. Eventually the bustle of arrival ceased and they were sat around the fire, newly lit, the flames of the kindling licking around the logs with yellow tongues. 

He was seated in a carved chair, which was new looking. He hoped it had not been bought especially for him. Cups of cider were being passed around by two pretty serving girls, and he made it his business to catch the eye of each knight and squire to frown a warning at them – look but don’t touch. The knights grinned shamelessly back at him. He felt his sword hand twitch. 

It was a designated fast day and supper was a bowl of fish soup packed with vegetables and pulses – it was good soup. Then they were served with a baked fish with herbs, again cooked perfectly, accompanied by a cheese and bread baked of fine white flour. 

He enquired and was told the cook was a woman. He therefore made it his business to visit the kitchen and wind his arm around her waist, bestowing a kiss on her flustered cheek. 

Since his earliest days he had a way with female cooks, knowing how to flatter and cajole to get the very best of viands from them. Many a happy hour had been spent in kitchen, awaiting barley cakes come hot from the bakestone, dripping with bramble syrup, made just for him. 

Female cooks were motherly types, he had found, and with them his long face and nose and sticky out ears found favour, indeed were assets. Add to that his crooked, gap toothed grin, and soon orders would be rapped out to minions to fetch this and that for the nourishment of the Lord Kylo, whose tall, too thin frame needed sustenance - _immediately!_

He practiced the same dark arts on his wife these days, shirtless, for an entirely different reward. 

+++ 

The young couple wished to give up the solar for his comfort. Na na, he protested, he was quite comfortable by the fire wrapped in his military cloak with his hounds curled up beside him. They laid down a deep litter of fern for him, and with a pillow and an extra rug he was more than comfortable. It lacked only his wife bundled with him in his cloak for him to be completely content. 

He had stepped out with his hounds before he retired to relieve himself, and allow them the same comfort, looking up to where Orion lay in the heavens. 

His poor wife was six months into her pregnancy now and had parted with him reluctantly, although perfectly seeing the need. He had promised her he would send his goodnight kiss to the constellation of Orion, wherefrom she could claim it and he would claim his. 

Before kissing his fingertips and blowing the kiss toward the bright hunter, he first reached out with his hand and made a snatching motion to claim his wife’s kiss, carefully pressing his fingers against his lips as he unclenched them while imagining the press of her sweet ones. 

“Goodnight, sweetheart," he murmured to the inky, brightly lit heavens, "I love you. Sleep safe, you and our children.” 

The next morning, after a breakfast of bread dipped in wine, he walked out to view the demesne with Finn, his hounds running free. As they passed the field strips, the lord’s, the Franklin’s, and the bondsman’s lying side by side, with an area of common land set aside for grazing, he brought up the subject of archery – specifically, the use of the bow as an instrument of war. 

Finn answered each and every one of his questions to his satisfaction, his busy mind formulating a strategy as he sifted through Finn’s answers. Finally, he paused in their perambulations and made his proposal. Finn’s eyes widened at the enormity of what was imagined, and Ben watched him carefully, watchful for any trace of doubt that Finn may have about his competence to carry out the task asked of him. 

There was no doubt to be found, and they solemnly shook hands standing by the orchard with its grey gnarled apple trees, dormant now, the apples harvested and turned into the cider Normandy was famous for, the pulp of the pressing going to feed the swine to sweeten their flesh. 

Pear trees there were too. These had been pressed after the apple harvest to make perry, the pulp also going the way of the apple pulp. The surplus would be preserved in wine in stoneware jars, or carefully stored with the unpressed apples in a cool store – an important fresh food during winter with its reliance on salted or smoked meat. 

As they stood by the press, idly gossiping, the dinner bell was rung and Kylo was first through the door, his nose, like those of his hounds, sniffing the air hopeful of what the goodwife in the kitchen would serve up. 

He had brought a wild boar with him, hunted by himself and his knights, the hounds thrilled to be back in the field. He caught the aroma, ah she _had_ cooked civet of boar. Wonderful woman! She’d just earned herself another squeeze and a kiss. 

After dinner Aurélie-Marie was introduced to him, her fists waving madly at the sight of his two wolfhounds, completely oblivious to the courtesy due to her duke. 

She was a pretty little thing, tiny like her mother. Her hair and eyes were dark, her skin olive. Yes, she could pass for Finn’s daughter. 

That Finn had bonded with her was evident. Had it not been for the distracting presence of Roland and Maud, he was sure she would have monopolised her foster father’s attention. 

A sheepskin rug was placed upon the earth floor and she was sat upon it, clapping her hands and calling incomprehensible commands to both hounds, who came up to her gently sniffing and then licking her bare legs and feet. She squealed with delight, shouting at them when they turned away toward the fire, and trying to stand. Rose said she had been trying to walk these last weeks, pulling herself up and then falling down when she had tried to take a single step. 

He felt his heart clench as he observed her gyrations. He would dearly love a daughter, indeed as many as his Rey could give him, but he must have sons first – three at least. 

Rey had badly wanted to breastfeed Anakin, anxious to be close to her children, having so few memories herself of her mother, but he couldn’t allow it. Not until he had his three sons, then she could do as she wished, until then... he mentally shrugged off his guilt over what must be. 

The little miss on the rug was now becoming hysterical that the hounds wouldn’t obey her command and come back – and that her mother prevented her from crawling to them. Laughing at the sight of the pure rage manifest in her small body, he swept the tiny terror up into his arms. She stared at him, momentarily in shock, so he grinned at her. Transfixed, she suddenly smiled back, a wide gaping smile revealing four teeth, then reached out and tried to twist the nose off his face – of course, he thought wryly, she would go for the nose. 

Soon she was twisting around, once more seeking out the hounds. He called Roland over, sitting Aurélie-Marie down on his lap. The great hound came reluctantly, laying his head on his master’s knee and giving a deep sigh. Very gently, he took the little girl’s hand and ran it over Roland’s coarse hair. She was, however, more interested in Roland’s metal collar – worn as protection from the jaws of the wolf. 

As her little fingers went to grasp the edges of the collar, Roland pulled away – not used to children, he had submitted out of sufferance and because ordered by his master. As he loped back to where Maud lay, a terrific scream erupted from Aurélie-Marie’s lungs. Even Kylo was surprised by the power of her bellowing. Rose snatched her up with a flustered apology and fled toward the solar whilst Finn sheepishly began a rambling apology. 

Kylo interrupted him, “Na, na, don’t apologise.” A wide grin broke across his features: “I just hope the man she wants to marry meets with your approval, otherwise... “, he paused dramatically. Finn laughed, ruefully nodding agreement. 

He spoke privately once more to Finn before he set off the next morning, and kissed the cook. He also managed to have a discreet word with Désiré-Jean. 

The man was not unhappy and was treated well, but he missed the service of the Countess, Her Grace he _should_ say, and was a little homesick for Naboo. Kylo made no promises, but indicated his wish to see Désiré-Jean instated as Comptroller of his wife’s affairs in Naboo. 

Montgomeri was a competent overlord of Naboo, but he had been through the ledgers pertaining to his wife’s county and there was no doubt in his mind that Désiré-Jean was exceptional at controlling costs and maximising profit. He therefore pressed a purse of silver coin into the man’s hands as a token of his esteem, parting from him on excellent terms. 

Once more in the saddle, he turned Tie’s head not toward Rouen, but to his mother’s manor. 

She had returned to her own home shortly after he’d discussed with her the wisdom of letting Rey go abroad without a head covering, thus exposing her to covetous looks and illicit thoughts. 

She had stared at him for what felt like hours after he’d delivered his rebuke, indeed, he’d felt himself begin to fidget under that baleful stare. It seemed as though she would say something, but instead she swept from the room her silk skirts frou-frouing angrily as she marched past him. 

She had then packed, bag, baggage and irritating biddies, inveigling Lando as her escort home - Lando had returned, she had not. 

He was going to her now, cap in hand, to beg her forgiveness and ask for her assistance. It would come at a price – he’d already gritted his teeth over what she may request, determined to acquiesce gracefully in public to whatever she asked. 

His mother received him formally, sat in a carved chair with her tiny feet set firmly on a footstool. She did not rise to greet him. 

He fixed a rictus smile on his face and advanced, kneeling before her – she had not had a cushion placed for his comfort. He stretched forward to take and kiss her hand, plucking it from where it lay languidly in her lap. 

She was signalling, by her indifference to receive his courteous salute, that her indignation with him still burned bright in her bosom. 

Oh, how he hoped she would teach Rey these ways of hers. 

“Maman," he spoke dutifully, "I hope I find you well?” 

He gave her the opportunity to pick up the thread of familial unity. Instead she replied coldly and cryptically, “I am as you find me.” 

Damn! She was going to be difficult. 

He recovered. 

“Then I do indeed find you well, Maman, as your peerless beauty attests.” 

There was a gleam in her eye, an appreciative one, quickly suppressed. 

He rose from his knees, standing aside to let his knights pay their courtesies to her - she extended her hand to each of them in turn. 

As he stood waiting, he realised no-one had come forward with a stool for him to sit on, or showed any inclination to do so. He decided to ignore this solecism, aware of the biddies standing with lips pursed, their expressions severe. Things were bad then, for he had always been their darling, even his periodic rudeness to them being excused because of their fondness for him. 

Perversely, now he was in danger of losing their love it became the thing he most desired to keep. He was aware of the debt he owed them, that their deeds of devotion to his cause (that he would live and become duke) ought to be written into song. Truly he had been (was) blessed in the women in his life. 

He therefore bestowed his most winning smile upon them, boyish and open and usually irresistible. They shifted uncomfortably and cast down their eyes. His heart sank, he was unforgiven. 

He was patient, therefore, as his mother prevaricated over his request for a private meeting, aware his credit was currently not good with the whole household of La Seigneurie. He waited a whole day after his arrival, patiently kicking his heels, putting himself at his mother’s disposal. After dinner on the second day she showed mercy to him, requesting his arm for support as she walked her garden. 

October was drawing to a close and the heat of summer had gone back to heaven shortly after Michaelmas, but there was an hour or two in the early afternoon when there was some pleasant sunshine to be enjoyed – this was such an afternoon. 

The garden had a swept clean look, the roses and lavender having been cut back hard. Odd patches of green still showed, perhaps some long-lived herb tenacious of life? 

She sat them on a stone bench and bid him speak. He did so, completely unburdening himself with regard to Mauger, Arlette and his wife’s maids. At the end of it he stole a glance at her, her face was unreadable. Her question, when it came, surprised him – then again, this was his mother. 

“Was it really necessary to the success of your plan to kiss Arlette, Benjamin?” 

He paused before answering and then went with the truth, “You know how it was with me, Maman”, he unconsciously stroked the hair covering his ears, Leia’s expression softened momentarily. 

He was floundering to put his feelings into words, “She wanted me to kiss her and I knew how to, so I did.” 

He raised his eyes, “That’s all it would ever have been, Maman, I swear. She offered more, later, but I refused. I love my wife”, he added lamely. 

She nodded, lightly clasping one of his hands. They stared at nothing in particular, lost in their own thoughts. 

Leia broke the silence between them. 

“As I understand it, you fear that because of their dislike of you and because they are french, they may pass back what they observe and hear to the french king.” 

“I believe they could be subverted to the french king’s cause. It’s a valid concern, Maman, letters were found in Mauger’s possession showing he had opened a channel to the french king and was deep in his confidence.” 

He took a deep breath, “Maman, I tell you, I don’t have enough manpower to defeat Henry in pitched battle. I must use stratagems to beat him. If Henry gets wind of even the smallest detail, it will be catastrophic for us. I have heard he laments protecting me instead of murdering me when he had the chance. If that is truly his sentiment, I fear for you and Rey and your grandchildren if I lose.” 

A deep silence developed between them, once again Leia broke it with a simple “I see.” 

She said it in a weighty way and he knew she took his concerns seriously. 

“This channel, she enquired, have you closed it?” 

“Yes, I’ve exiled Mauger to an island where communication with the outside world is difficult, if not impossible. I extinguished the others.” 

She did not ask him to elaborate. 

She patted his hand, “I think I will come and keep Christmas with you, and visit my daughter and grandchild – of course, I must bring some of my biddies with me.” 

If she expected objections, they never came. Rather, he was humbly asking, “Do you think they’ll come? I have not been kind to them and I think they hate me right now.” 

Inwardly, she marvelled at his changed tone, but contented herself with giving a soft laugh and remarking, “I’m sure they’ll forgive you, Benjamin, after a lifetime’s devotion to you I doubt they’ll change now.” 

He surprised her once more. 

“Do you think so? I know I owe them a lot. I would hate to lose their regard.” 

“You owe them your life," she said softly, "some of them betrayed husbands, sons and lovers that you might live. Others saved you with fleetness of foot, or an ear quick to hear of a plot.” 

He hung his head, ashamed of his ill-humoured intolerance of them. 

“I make no bargain with you over this," she began abruptly, "but promise me this, if I go before them, you will see them well cared for and lacking nothing.” 

“I swear it, Maman, they will be as dear to me as you are, but, Maman, do not speak of your passing for, truly, I cannot bear it.” 

He leaned forward and she pressed his head against her breast, gently running a hand through his dark locks to comfort him. 

“Come, come my son, it grows chilly, we must go hug the fire.” 

She linked her arm in his as they walked - the last bridge between them crossed, past mistakes forgiven both sides. 

The next morning he rode out early, headed for home.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bayeux = pronounced buyer but without the r
> 
> Caen = pronounced quand but without the d
> 
> This chapter contains a description of a decisive battle with references to the death of men and horses, set in dynastic struggle. If this is a problem, stop reading now.
> 
> I have lifted an authentic mail coif (yes, I am that nerdy about all things medieval) and can verify it weighs a ton. Even Mr Awkward's eyebrows were raised in disbelief at the weight of it and respect for the men who wore it like a second skin.

Henry did not come in the spring of the next year, as before. Instead, the duchy rejoiced as a second son was born to it in late February. Rey was churched six weeks later, purified before the altar at the cathedral in time to celebrate Easter. 

Had his enemies been paying attention, Kylo had signalled to them his future intent with the baptismal name of his second son – Edward, the name of the current English king. 

With hindsight, had men remembered the blood tie between the Amidala line and the English king, the slaughter at Varaville could have been avoided – but there again, perhaps not. Fortune’s wheel seemed to have raised Kylo Ren to its highest point and then paused in its rotation indefinitely, holding him in high acclaim over other men – meaning that the less favoured had to scramble for position and place and shift for themselves as best they could. 

Such singular favour tends to provoke jealousy rather than admiration. 

The french king, therefore, ignored the time and times for kings to go to war and entered the duchy when the corn stood high and ripe in the field awaiting the kiss of the sickle. His intent was to trample and burn, to bring to ruination Kylo Ren and all that was his. It was a bold intent, if not a noble one. Perhaps the lack of nobility in his cause was the reason certain principal allies of his stayed at home – perhaps. 

Certainly Duke Peter, upon receiving the call to arms, took to his bed, weary of the gyrations of the houses Capet and Anjou. 

The teenage Count of Brittany took counsel of his uncle and promised to come, but then stayed at home. Kylo Ren had threatened to bring fire and sword against him if he ever gave succour to his enemies again and had burned the young count’s lands from his border with Anjou to his capital Rennes – by way of leaving something on account. 

Altogether then, the length and breadth of France, men promised much to the french king but did little. Only in the bellicose Geoffrey Martel did the french king find a reliable ally. In fact, it was through Anjou they came this time, a force fewer in number than that slaughtered at Mortemer. 

The proposal was this; they would march up from Anjou and invest Bayeux. Once the castle had fallen and its fiery bishop subdued, they would swing inland and take Caen. Normandy would then be split in two, the duke trapped in either Rouen or Falaise. They could then strip the duchy of its wealth at their leisure and starve Kylo Ren into submission – then they would hang him and show all of France and beyond that Henry Capet was not a man to be crossed. 

That was the plan. 

+++ 

His mother had spent Christmas and New Year at Rouen, travelling back to La Seigneurie during a break in the weather mid-January. She had taken the three french maids with her, begging for their company as she was, she said, grown tired of her old broiling hens and needed to look upon faces which spoke of April rather than January. 

This set off a scandalised clucking from the biddies, in front of which she said this. 

The little maids were torn, both flattered and conflicted in equal measure as my lord’s mother had made them each a gift of a fur lined cloak at Christmas and given them pretty gold rings for the Near Year gift. They didn’t know how to refuse her and still keep her love. 

They turned to the Lady Rey, who was smiling her approval and who told them later that they were a credit to her and she took it as a great compliment that her _belle-mere_ had asked for such a favour. So to La Seigneurie they went, four biddies left in their place to wait upon my lady. 

When Kylo had told her of his proposal to send her maids to his mother, kneeling in front of her and tightly clasping her hands between his, his eyes intent on reading every micro expression of hers, he had expected tears, protests, anger. Instead, she heard him out, wide eyed and nodding agreement to every word he uttered. 

He paused, taken aback by her reaction, rearing back on his heels and gazing at her in narrow eyed puzzlement as she now fiddled with her wedding band or smoothed out her gown for the umpteenth time. 

She began to speak, her voice low and nervous. 

“My lord, you do right I think. You see, my maids have spied on me before for the french king – well, a maid did.” 

He blew out a breath and rose, pulling her out of her chair and settling himself down on it, drawing her onto his knee. He waited patiently for her to speak further. 

“The french king wanted me to marry Poe, he being the king’s creature, and Poe got Rose to spy on me to ensure I made no other attachment. When I met you he became doubly anxious, you had such an effect on me, you see.” 

He nuzzled her neck, remaining silent. 

“I suspected some plot between them and was sure of it when I told Rose not to tell anyone I’d sent you the jewel, or to repeat the message that went with it. It was obvious she’d told Poe as he betrayed her before me.” 

She turned her head to look at him directly. 

“Rose paid a terrible price for her treachery, and I’m sure she feels grateful to you as she ought, but, yes, you do right to err on the side of caution.” 

This was news, and he determined then and there that the day he caught up with Poe Dameron was the day he’d make the man regret he was ever born. 

Meanwhile, he needed to ensure that Rose Neville made no contact with any french agent and hope that her husband kept his secrets from her – as they’d agreed that day in the apple orchard. 

Kylo had established his own spy network, and by the time his second son was born he knew most of the king of France’s plans and had devised a counter offensive. As before, travellers and chapmen confirmed much of what his agents were telling him. 

+++ 

There were problems from the start; Frenchmen had no love for the Angevins, and time and time again french captains had to intervene in quarrels where it was daggers drawn – not always successfully. 

Martel was still smarting at the devastation inflicted on his county by Kylo Ren and was determined to recoup by plundering the wealth of Normandy. To this end he sacked also church and abbey scandalising the french troops from man at arms to chevalier, and confirming to them that Angevins had no religion. 

Kylo, through Lor San Tekka, knowing the nature of the Angevins, had warned of such events and the most valuable articles of worship and the most sacred of relics had been hidden away. 

Martel was, therefore, baulked of the riches he had anticipated. He then plumbed the depths in the eyes of the French by preparing to torture an abbot in an effort to find out where a particular abbey’s treasure had been hidden. 

The french army’s expression of revulsion was swift and conclusive. Faced with a mutiny, Henry Capet finally moved to rein Martel in, knowing himself to be in imminent danger of losing both his crown and his life. 

He intervened and publicly anointed the abbot’s hurts, kneeling before him to plead for forgiveness. This was given, but the damage had been done – it was not a united force which went up against Odo of Bayeux. 

The warlike bishop, supported by his natural father, Robert, and two half brothers, William and young Robert, had prepared well. The besiegers were met with volley after volley of heavy stones – boulders even were pitched over the town’s defensive walls. Hot pitch rained down onto them and lances were cast against them. The assault was unsustainable and a retreat was sounded. 

In the confusion of withdrawal, men missed that the iron banded gates of the town were swinging open, each one supported by a wheel mechanism which rested on an iron track - such was the weight of them. 

Out of the gateway erupted Odo of Bayeux dressed in hauberk and coif and wearing a nut shaped helmet. The folds of his dalmatic were rucked up to allow him to mount his horse, exposing the iron studded leather cross gartering under his knees. 

His horse, a black percheron weighing in at some 2,000 pounds, thundered toward the retreating french lines nostrils flaring and red with fury to do the bidding of his master. His father Robert and his two brothers followed closely, the stream of knights flowing after them through the town gates becoming a flood as they fanned out, the ground trembling under the hooves of the mighty war horses. 

Odo had been counselled most severely by Lor San Tekka after Mortemer for shedding Christian blood. He had threatened interdict and excommunication should Odo forget his calling again. Odo therefore carried a mace and not a sword, a weapon for smashing, with carved trilobite stones set into a heavy wooden baton. 

The assault on the french king’s troops was a quick and brutal maul. After the town gates were secured once more, the Norman knights and their fiery bishop safe behind the walls, a decision was made to abandon the siege of Bayeux and push on – leaving the dead and dying behind. 

Odo sat down and wrote a brief account of the action and sent it to his duke. ‘He’s heading for Varaville’, was his proud boast. 

The French had instinctively gravitated toward the ford, it being the closest crossing point over the river Dives between Bayeux and Caen. The ferocity of Odo’s charge, and its lightning nature, the Normans back safely behind strong wall and barred gate before they could organise a counter offensive, had shaken them up for a while. 

Now, however, the realisation of where they were headed permeated through and Henry called a pause. The French had fought at Varaville before, currently the odds in favour of winning the next battle there were with the Normans. 

Taking counsel from his captains, they determined that they would only continue their journey there if Kylo Ren was still in Falaise or Rouen. To this end, scouts were sent out intelligence gathering. They were not left to camp unmolested, however; local seigneurs mounted intermittent punitive raids – the usual Norman tactic of attrition. 

Finally, the scouts were back. The duke was still in Falaise, sheltering behind the fortress’s walls. His duchess was ensconced in Rouen. Were they sure? As sure as anyone could be, they replied. Falaise was sealed tight, preparing for siege. 

In addition, they’d traversed the marshes leading to the river several times and seen nothing but waterfowl and some men cutting reeds for thatch. These had run away when they saw the scouts, dropping their precious tools in their haste to get away. No patrol had been called out to challenge them - it was just villeins and open road before them. 

Henry dismissed them. As they turned to go they imparted one final fact, the duchess was again with child they’d been told. They left him swallowing down bitter bile, his limbs beginning to twitch. 

In the end, they chose the ford because it would situate them above Caen and between Rouen where the duchess lay and Falaise where laid the duke – allowing them to spread out and occupy the fertile plains of the Auge. 

Henry felt a tremor run through him, an anticipatory thrill of victory. Still, they moved cautiously, hovering on the edge of the marsh waiting for the tide to retreat to its lowest ebb, searching, always searching for signs of treachery. 

The watchers were coming from the bank of the river, “Sire, the tide is fully ebbed and we may cross now.” 

Henry hesitated for several seconds and then gave the office to move out. 

A causeway ran through the marsh and continued over the riverbed, standing proud now it was low tide. Cautiously, Henry moved forward surrounded by his bodyguard, his body wound tight with a fight or flight instinct. 

In the end, his caution worked against him, for only so many could ride abreast along the causeway – he moved his vanguard first, the rearguard with bag, baggage and Angevin plunder following. 

By the time the vanguard had crossed unmolested and he was congratulating himself, the scouts raised a warning shout, “Sire, we delayed too long, the tide is flooding.” 

He turned, Martel and his senior nobles beside him, and galloped back to the riverbank. True enough, the tide was indeed flooding, coming in as a fast bore – faster than a horse could gallop. He had miscalculated the speed of the incoming tide and his rearguard was now stranded on the opposite bank. 

Fortune’s wheel had inched forward and again bestowed an advantage to its favoured son. 

“Can they not cross regardless?” Henry cried out. 

“No, Sire, came the emphatic response, there are undercurrents which would pull a man down and drown him.” 

Henry bit his nails. Did he advance and the rearguard camp on the marsh, or did he wait on the plain where they stood, exposed, until the next ebb tide? 

He had not long to worry over the matter. One of his nobles was pointing with his whip, “Sire, what mischief is this?” 

Men were emerging from hidey holes known only to them, from ancient places of concealment in the marsh. Worryingly, in their hands they clutched sickles and axes, billhooks even, the everyday tools belonging to those whose duty it was to cultivate the land and manage forest and marsh. Surely they didn’t intend to attack the warrior class, the flower of french chivalry? 

“Sire, look!” 

Another was pointing toward a point they’d not long traversed, horsemen travelling swiftly toward them, at the gallop. 

Henry’s heart plummeted as a single voice from the marsh was raised, hollering the Norman hunting cry; “Oyez, ho moy, ho moy!” – ‘our prey is sighted, (come) to me, to me’. 

The cry was taken up by other voices, and soon a cacophony of sound rang out across the marsh and river and pressed against French and Angevin ears. 

Now other men were raising themselves up in answer to the invitation to kill, raising their arms and drawing back _bows?_. 

Henry sobbed out loud as realisation hit him, “That devil, he screamed, that son of Satan, what has he done, what has he done!” 

He pressed his spurs into his horse’s flanks with the intent of barrelling into the river and crossing to reach the men who were about to be struck down by mere bondsmen, for Kylo Ren, Duke of Normandy, had trained the despised people of the land in a new way of war and now no-one would be safe. 

Quickly his reins were grasped and his horse caged in and turned back. 

He looked on as the first arrow storm hit home – striking both man and beast. There was a collective grunt of disbelief and shock, and then the cries of injured men and horses filled the air. After the first minutes of inertia, the french knights and men at arms moved to retaliate, advancing into the marsh and promptly floundering into thick black mud which swallowed them whole. 

Only the locals and the men Finn Neville had trained in the use of the bow knew the safe paths through the marsh. 

A few that got through were chopped down with ruthless efficiency, their bodies sacrificed to the greedy appetite of the marsh’s dark pits. 

Some of Henry’s knights were moving toward the riverbank with a view to try to cross and render assistance. Almost seamlessly, archers peeled off to cover the opposite bank, defending the flank. The french knights drew back. 

By now the Norman horsemen had reached the melee, their long lances driving the French and Angevins either into the river or further into the marsh. Either way they were doomed. Those jumping into the river were pulled straight under the water to drown – the weight of the ring mail weighing some 80+ pounds, answering in the most macabre of ways Henry’s initial question. 

Resistance was dwindling, the cutting down of the French and Angevins now become a mechanical mopping up operation. 

A figure detached itself from the slaughter, a tall knight on a black stallion, and made his way to the bank directly across from Henry. 

There was no need for him to tilt his helmet back to make for easy identification, Henry knew his enemy. 

Kylo Ren lifted his sword arm and displayed the bright Saragossa blade, blood and viscera now dulling its fearful bright beauty. Henry’s teeth began chattering with suppressed rage. Point made, Kylo Ren turned Silencer, the massive horse returning eagerly to the fray. 

“Come, sire, come, master”, his servants were entreating him. “Come away with us.” 

He allowed them to take his horse’s reins from his nerveless hands and lead him away. 

No french king dared invade Normandy again, not in Kylo Ren’s lifetime, nor in his son’s nor his grandson’s. 

‘The Slaughter at Varaville’, the chroniclers dubbed the encounter, ‘for battle it was not’.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER REFERS BRIEFLY TO MUTILATION AND AMPUTATION INFLICTED AS A PUNISHMENT - SET WITHIN DYNASTIC STRUGGLE. IF THIS IS A PROBLEM, STOP READING NOW.
> 
> Pronouncement of two Viking names:
> 
> Swein = Sven
> 
> Cnut = kuh-noot

When the 11th century was only a few years young... no, we must go back aways and see the whole picture. 

In the fifth century the Anglo-Saxons came and conquered the land we now know as England. A pagan people, they pushed the Celts back to the north and west extremities of the island and settled down forming counties still in existence today, Essex, Sussex, Kent, East Anglia and Northumberland. 

By the end of the sixth century their kings had become Christian and so had the people. 

In the ninth century another pagan people invaded – the Vikings, their blood pulsing with the twin imperatives, fight and fuck. Kingdom after kingdom fell to them until only one, Wessex, stood against them and raised up a Saxon king able to push back – King Alfred. 

By the year 954, Alfred’s heirs and successors had captured the Viking capital of York and annexed all the other kingdoms. Anxious not to revert to multiple petty kingdoms, they appealed to men on the basis of their Christian faith united under one king, an _Anglo-Saxon_ king, with one law, one coinage, serving a single Christian god. 

This new state was named from the Angles word for the land occupied by them _Enga-lond_ (land of the Angles) – England. 

A remarkable book had begun to be compiled under Alfred’s reign named the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, written not in Latin but in English. 

In the late 10th century, the Vikings came back. 

Had anyone asked it of him, Kylo Ren would have sent for and had unwound the scroll depicting his family’s genealogy, pointing to the name and image of a great Norman lady, aunt to Padmé, named Emma. 

This lady had been briefly married to one who had pretensions to be Duke of Normandy, until the sword of Padmé’s father had permanently put an end to him. Altogether a sordid affair which he would have quickly passed over, if he mentioned it at all. Rather his eagerness would have been to share with his interlocutor the honour this lady had brought his house through her second marriage. 

The English king, one Ethelred, had tried punitive measures to discourage the Normans from trading plundered gold and silver from his kingdom in exchange for supplies and provisions, also from repairing the Viking’s ships before they returned to their winter quarters. He had been unsuccessful. 

He then had the happy idea of asking for a Norman bride, from the duke’s own family in fact. This would be beneficial in two ways, he reasoned, he could appeal to the Norman duke as a brother and he could persuade him on the basis of that brotherhood to cease giving succour to the Viking raiders of his kingdom. 

Furthermore, there was no fear of future Norman dukes ever pressing a claim to his kingdom as he had six sons living. Therefore, any sons he fathered on Emma would be so far down the pecking order as to be irrelevant. Poor fool. 

At home, Ethelred listened solely to the counsel of one Eadric. Nicknamed the Grabber or duplicitous bastard if you preferred, this man had murdered and dispossessed his way to the top, causing deep divisions between the king and his aristocracy. It was through these divisions the Vikings returned, at first with small raiding parties eventually, finding the English resistless, launching a full invasion – but I’m running ahead. 

The raids increased in frequency and penetration. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle drearily recorded Viking raiding parties passing before Winchester’s barred gates, (Wessex’s ancient capital), loaded with booty – a fifty mile trek from where their ships were beached. 

They raided Kent and took Canterbury, capturing its archbishop. Perhaps they intended to ransom him, except, deep in drink, someone suggested using him as a living target in an axe throwing contest. In want of their axes, weapons were not allowed to a feast with good reason, they pelted him instead with the ox bones they happened to have about them and he died. 

Ethelred turned for advice to the church. They saw the problem as spiritual and recommended prayers, gifts to the church – and the giving of a payment to the Vikings. Yes, Ethelred earned his cognomen ‘Unready’, derived the Chronicle tells us from the nickname given him at the time, the English word for ill-advised - _unraed_. 

Swein Forkbeard, the Viking leader, sat back and ruminated on such foolishness. He had observed the success of the Normans, each generation building on the legacy of Rollo and the ancestors, marrying into the French royal family, becoming a _something_ in the world of men, a force to be reckoned with. In 1013 he invaded England, the royal family fled to Normandy. 

Two weeks after launching the invasion, landing in Lincolnshire and pushing out from there, Swein suddenly upped and died. To a man, the Viking horde elected Swein’s teenage son to rule in his stead – the English nobility decided to recall Ethelred from exile. 

Ethelred admitted his faults, promised to be better advised in the future and returned home to assemble an army to meet the Danes in pitched battle, which, in a rare show of competence, he won, driving them back to the sea. 

‘As a dog returns to its vomit, so a fool repeats his folly’, runs the proverb. Ethelred reinstated Eadric as his enforcer, who happily recommenced murdering those opposed to the king’s will. Out of the snake pit of the English court arose a champion – Ethelred’s eldest son, Edmund, nicknamed ‘Ironside’. 

In 1014, driven out of England, Swein’s son, Cnut, signalling his displeasure at the decision to eject him, stopped at the southern port of Sandwich, Kent, to drop off the English hostages who had been given to his father – minus their hands, noses and ears. In 1016 he returned with another army. 

Edmund, in open rebellion of his father marched to meet Cnut and won every encounter against him. Fortune’s wheel seemed to be favouring him as shortly after Easter the same year, his father obligingly dropped dead. However, Eadric lived. 

Eadric, true to type, had abandoned the English for Cnut – and then switched back again. However, during a crucial battle, which Edmund was again winning, Eadric switched once more and deserted to Cnut. The battle was lost and Edmund died shortly after of his wounds. 

By Christmas that year, England had a Viking king and Cnut a Norman queen. 

Due to the fortunes of war, Ethelred’s sons had dwindled from six to one. Cnut, as single minded as ever, promptly executed this one, along with English aristocracy likely to oppose him and the traitorous Eadric. He then married the widowed queen, Emma. 

Emma had given birth to two sons and a daughter. The value of the eldest son, Edward, a great, great, great grandson of Alfred, the all conquering Wessex king, suddenly increased a hundredfold. In a rare moment of acuity, Ethelred had sent these children to the Norman court and safety before his death. 

The stories differ regarding the marriage of Cnut and Emma. One version being that he ordered her to marry him, the lady herself contradicting this and maintaining he wooed her by sending envoys with gifts. Allegedly entreating her to return from Normandy and begging for the honour of marrying her. 

Of course, there was the matter of him already having a wife, given to him by a disaffected English Thegn in 1013, by which he had two sons and a daughter. It was unclear whether that union had the sanction of the church, but the union with Emma most certainly did and it was she who was crowned with him as his queen. 

That was more than enough legitimacy for Emma to claim she was his true wife and the son she bore him the true heir, being that her marriage to Cnut was consensual and valid. 

It satisfied the criteria of her kinsman, the duke of Normandy, too, and the subsequent Norman dukes - enough to take a deep and abiding interest in English affairs and to guard, most carefully, the two potential kings in their care.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER AGAIN REFERS TO DEATH AND MULTILATION AND TENSIONS WITHIN A DYNASTIC UNION - ALL SET WITHIN DYNASTIC STRUGGLE - IF THIS IS A PROBLEM STOP READING NOW.
> 
> Edwardus rex angolorum = Edward, King of the English

After cleaning house with customary Viking brutality and thoroughness, Cnut astonished everyone by announcing he had received Christian baptism as a child and had been given a Christian name – Lambert. He then launched a campaign to woo the church to his side by bestowing rich gifts and favours upon them. 

In spite of the maiming of the poor souls dropped off at Sandwich, in spite of the drunken manslaughter of the archbishop of Canterbury, and other crimes stinking up clear to the heavens, he received the church’s love – even travelling to Rome eventually and receiving the Pope’s personal blessing. 

The culling of English aristocracy by Eadric and Cnut meant that it was a struggle at first to man the necessary offices of state. Initially, Scandinavians filled these roles, but the majority of those who had backed Cnut and survived hankered to return home, loaded down with their share of tribute and erecting celebratory rune stones for their posterity. 

In the end, Cnut divided England into three regions: the far north held by a Viking, earl Siward, the middle by an English earl, Leofric, and the southern portion (which included Wessex and the ancient capital Winchester) by a newly belted Earl – Brendol Hux. 

This Hux was a man of obscure origins, one though who rapidly made himself indispensable to Cnut who lavished praise and wealth upon him, even giving him his widowed sister-in-law as wife. 

It’s important for the reader to remember here that these three earls were not related through blood ties or marriage as had been the custom before, no, they were rivals. 

Cnut reigned for almost 20 years and then died aged 37; leaving two women – two mothers – who were each determined that their son would be king. 

Earls Leofric and Siward favoured Harold, the surviving son of Elfgifu the wife Cnut married in the manner of the Danes, Earl Hux favouring the son of Queen Emma – Harthacnut. (All this while Emma seemingly forgot that she had two heirs to the English throne living, directly descended from Alfred, in Normandy. The care of who was now in the hands of Anakin and Padmé). 

Elfgifu also held a trump card – her son, Harold, was actually in England, Harthacnut had been sent by his father to rule Denmark and was bogged down in a dispute with another Viking lord. Brendol Hux, reading the signs and believing himself about to be marginalised, wavered in his support of Emma. 

Emma responded using propaganda. She had a pre-nuptial agreement she averred, by which Cnut promised any sons sired on her would take precedence with regard to inheriting the English throne. Anyway, as everyone knew, Harold was a changeling taken in the night from the bed of a serving girl. 

It says much for the credulity and superstition of the age that credence was given to the slander – the Anglo-Saxon chronicle repeating it with all seriousness. 

About a year passed with the matter unresolved, until armed men arrived at Winchester with authority to remove Cnut’s treasury and the royal regalia required for the coronation of a king – Brendol Hux had finally declared for Harold. 

Panicking, fearing loss of power, Emma finally remembered the existence of her two sons by Ethelred and wrote in all haste to Edward in Normandy, pleading for him to come and stake his claim to the English throne. 

Had his daughter not got herself knocked up by an itinerant, had she not tried to flee to one of his self-confessed enemies, perhaps Anakin would have looked more closely into the guarantees of safe conduct avowed by Emma. However, these things _were_ pressing down upon him when Edward and Alfred professed to him their willingness to go claim their birthright. 

Both men had been housed and provided with households which acknowledged their status as heirs apparent to the English throne. Indeed, a seal proclaiming Edward as rightful English king had been made and charters were sealed with it proclaiming _Edwardus, rex angolorum_. Anakin gave consent, therefore, and unwittingly added another burden for his soul to bear. 

It was determined that Edward would sail to Southampton on the English south coast, within easy travelling distance of his mother’s residence at Winchester. Alfred would sail to Dover, incognito, in the guise of a pilgrim. Edward would be provided mounted armed knights and 40 ships to convey them – Lando acting both as a commander and an ambassador representing Norman interests. 

Both Anakin and Padmé saw the young men off, Anakin impressing on Lando that the safety of both must be paramount – before any other consideration. 

Lando Calrissian may be a womaniser and ape effete Frenchmen in his choice of attire, but his brain was shrewd and calculating – above all, devoted to Norman interests. 

As they stood off the coast, anchored in Southampton Water, he regarded the welcoming party on the shoreline with narrowed eyes and suspected treachery. Under the cover of darkness, he despatched two English speaking scouts. They returned in short order. 

The town was full of house Carls formerly in the service of Cnut, (his handpicked bodyguard), now in the service of Harold, sent by Brendol Hux to slaughter Edward the minute he set foot on English soil. Lando ordered all lights dowsed and they sailed undetected back to Normandy guided by the moon and stars. 

It was too late to recall Alfred. All they could do was await news. It came. It was the worst sort possible. 

Alfred and his small party of clerics had landed unmolested at Dover and had begun their journey disguised as pilgrims. The port must have been watched, it was inconceivable they were betrayed by Normandy, because the distraction of Edward’s arrival in Southampton wasn’t enough to divert attention from them – three days into their journey they were intercepted by Earl Hux himself, who cordially offered hospitality. 

They were wined and dined and made comfortable, put entirely at their ease. However, when it came to retiring for the night, for some reason it was necessary to lodge them separately. This news was accompanied with many apologies, their host clearly embarrassed, consequently they mouthed assurances that no inconvenience was incurred, having no idea what was to transpire. 

Alfred was pulled from his bed in the night and blinded, then sent to Ely in the Cambridgeshire fens where he was tended by the monks there – only to die shortly afterwards of his wounds. The others were murdered, sold into slavery or mutilated. 

Harold, son of Cnut, had asked Brendol Hux to prove his loyalty, and in order to maintain his position and place he had. 

Harold now had the backing of all three principal earls, and so had himself proclaimed king. 

The shock of Alfred’s death reverberated throughout Normandy, Anakin having the bells of Rouen cathedral toll out the passing bell for him, with orders that every bell in the dukedom do the same. 

In an ideal world, Anakin would have launched a punitive action against the English. He was constrained, however, by finances. Edward never pressed for war, knowing how many sacrifices successive ducal households had made to keep him living befitting his status as (an uncrowned) king. It was not until a generation later when a tall, black haired duke secured love (and accompanying wealth) from the Countess of Naboo, that Normandy could consider taking war to the English a viable option. 

Also, grave cares were pressing in on Anakin. His daughter’s betrayal of trust (some days he could barely look at her without giving in to rage) had exposed the duchy to an uncertain and perilous future. In order to put it right, he had broken a vow made to his wife at the altar and taken a concubine – two concubines, in spite of her pleadings to wait it out and see if the Lord blessed them with a grandson. 

Seven to eight months was nothing in the scheme of things, she had argued. He had overridden her objections out of fear and must now suffer the consequence. She believed he was indulging his own suppressed carnal appetites, jaded with her body and desiring younger flesh instead. She judged him faithless and would no longer willingly let him touch her or wear his ring. 

Physically she was present, although at first she had repudiated him, but most truly she was lost to him. Where before he knew her heart, now he was outcast, stumbling to interpret what lay behind those beautiful eyes. Only knowing that if he came to her when she was alone, she flinched. She whom he loved, who had once sought out his caress and kisses, now visibly shuddered if she thought he would try to touch her. 

He did what he could to avenge Alfred, sending word to Emma that she no longer had his love, so that when she shortly went into exile under the threat of death, she chose to flee to Flanders. He declared any Viking or English ship seeking safe harbour in Norman waters as no longer welcome. Indeed, any seigneur or count could, with his blessing, confiscate their booty or cargo and put the crew to death and burn their ships. 

Normandy had declared for Edward.


	17. Chapter 17

When Ben Skywalker Solo was three years old, Cousin Edward came to Rouen to bid his Norman family farewell. 

Ben had no recollection of that day, but was later told that Edward had received an invitation from earl Hux and the bishop of Winchester to come to England and be invested as co-ruler with his Viking half brother Harthacnut. 

This was not because the English had recognised the rightness of Edward’s claim to the English throne he was informed, but because Harthacnut had suddenly reappeared and Harold had subsequently suddenly died. Then, after enduring two years of Harthacnut’s kingship, it was decided to petition for Edward’s return because his rapacious half sibling was bleeding the country dry. 

Shortly after a unanimous vote had been declared to crown Edward as co-ruler, Harthacnut had taken part in one of the drinking contests so beloved by Viking men, at a wedding. He drained the massive drinking horn in record time, but had barely time to wipe his moustache before he dropped dead. Edward, it seemed, would rule alone – with Brendol Hux as kingmaker. 

At five years of age, though looking more like eight due to his height, Anakin made him a present of a specially made hauberk and coif. He wore this for part of every day to get used to the weight of it. Wearing it as a second skin so as not to impede his movements, or feeling as though it weighted him down when he fought. His grandmother presented him with his first horse, a bay pony named Wicket. 

At seven years old he was appointed junior squire to his grandfather, sitting with the other squires to help clean chain mail with fine sand, oiling it afterwards and wrapping it in oiled linen to be locked away in chests in the armoury. He had had two years’ instruction with a sword at this point, and how to fight in close combat. 

At nine years of age he and Anakin braved the perils of the English Channel to visit Cousin Edward, who was keeping Easter court at Winchester, the choppy grey expanse having the power to make the rowers feel its malevolence when their oars dipped in and out of its murky waters. 

The purpose of the visit was beyond his understanding at the time, like so many events in his early years the understanding came after. However, the first impressions of that visit stayed with him always – firstly, the lush green countryside, so different from home, and then those distant, dense forests, surely the dwelling of the bear, the boar and the wolf. 

Other malign creatures could dwell there too. As they approached the encroaching trees, Anakin ordered their swords to be loosened in their sheaths and to mount their shields on their forearm. They had an escort of the king’s own house carls, but even so. 

Walking into the Great Hall at Winchester, Cousin Edward sitting on a carved chair under an embroidered canopy wearing a heavy gold crown decorated with fleurons and dotted about with precious stones, he was aware of the foreignness of Anglo-Saxon dress and appearance. 

The company, and the king, wore their hair long with moustaches or beards in contrast to the clean shaven Normans, except for Uncle Lando whose own more modest upper lip and carefully coiffed locks seemed somewhat diminished in present company. 

The men of the court wore their tunics and cloaks short, heavily embroidered at cuff, hem, neck and border with the embroidery the English were famous for – oft imitated but never equalled. 

There were, however, no sneering looks cast toward the plainer Norman attire, and even if there had been it would have been easily dismissed without offense. Their long tunics, and longer cloaks touching their heels, were worn in the manner set by Charlemagne and needed no justification or apology. 

The sheer glitter of the court in the torch lit hall was almost overwhelming, the men wearing as much or more gold as the women, with cunningly wrought belt buckles, torcs, and bracelets finished with enamel or set with precious stones which glinted fierily in the artificial light. 

Edward’s greeting was warm. He rose and stepped off the dais to embrace Anakin, pressing a fraternal kiss to his lips, whilst his massive grandfather embraced him just as warmly in return. Then it was Lando’s turn, the same effusive greeting given him – Edward’s gratitude for his previous service sincere and obvious. 

Then he turned to Ben, who, in spite of his height, would require Edward to bow before him. Aware of the politics of the English court, Edward instead placed his hands either side of the boy’s neck to turn up his face and gaze searchingly into it. 

He was clearly well satisfied with what he saw, raising his voice to compliment Anakin on the youth’s health and vigour – and perhaps addressing the assembled court? 

Afterwards, perched on Cousin Edward’s footstool at his feet, Anakin and Uncle Lando stationed at his right hand, the Norman knights they had brought with them as escort standing to their left, a little way down from the dais, the great men of the kingdom approached to give their greetings. 

It should have overwhelmed Ben, perhaps it did a little, but he was Anakin Skywalker’s grandson after all and trained to keep his countenance. A familiar name being spoken captured his attention – Brendol Hux. 

A thickset man was standing before Anakin and Lando, his silver hair still showing streaks of red at the ends. He was wearing a short blue cloak embroidered with peacocks. Even Uncle Lando, dressed in yellow tunic and long blue cloak looked dull against this bright bird. 

Ben was fascinated by the embroidered birds, absorbed in taking in every detail of them as the cloak moved this way and that corresponding to the movements of earl Hux as he conversed courteously with his grandsire. 

The peacocks swung away from his line of sight and instead he looked up into cold, blue eyes, unfathomable in their expression. His own dark eyes met earl Hux’s gaze with studied limpidity, but something inside of him, an _otherness_ , began to idly debate with him ‘How would we destroy this enemy of our family, this usurper of what is ours?’ 

Shortly, when Brendol Hux blinked and looked away, he had the answer. 

He was continuing to contemplate the peacocks, now moving steadily away from him, when he felt a hand come to rest on his shoulder. He looked up into the face of his cousin, the king. Edward was smiling down at him, his eyes reflecting a pleased maliciousness. 

They celebrated Easter week at the English court, needing to return thence to Normandy as it wouldn’t do for the Iron Duke to be out of his lands too long. They were feted during their stay, all the Norman guests receiving valuable gifts from both the English court and the expat Normans. 

One other event of note took place, in Winchester cathedral where Ben swore to be his Cousin Edward’s liege man in full view of the English court. 

To a certain extent, inheriting the English throne was elective. The support of the leading English families was crucial to not only ascend to it, but to keep it - hence why the Huxes were so essential to Edward in keeping his. 

After Ben swore his oath of allegiance, therefore, to his cousin, those who potentially had the power to make or break king’s knelt before him and swore to be his liege men in return. 

The whole purpose of this show was to acknowledge that the heir apparent to the Norman dukedom was also heir apparent to the English throne. 

Of course, Ben understood that this was merely a safeguard. Cousin Edward was married to Hux’s daughter, Edith. She had been given to him aged 12 years and was now seventeen. With Edward now over forty, they would have consummated their marriage by now and shortly produce an English heir. 

Ben was grateful his grandfather had explained this to him, because he got the distinct impression most, if not all, of those who made this sacred promise to him did not intend to keep it. 

‘Do you see their impiety?’ his otherness asked. Yes, he did, and knew the cause. They had become used to being boisterous before their master. 

Everyone knew that hounds were fed after their owner. Only when replete, did their lord allow them the scraps from his table. He felt his own stomach tighten with anger and, unbeknownst to him, his eyes darkened as they looked upon his erstwhile subjects, his mind having settled on the cure for what ailed them – judicious use of the whip. 

It was a fierce looking nine year old then, that clasped treacherous hands between his, seated on a carved chair with his sheathed sword settled across his knees, the cap on his head scarlet embroidered with the twin lions of Normandy, and a barely controlled beast roaring in his belly. 

When Ben was eleven years old, his grandmother took him to where they could speak privately and spoke to him of inheriting the English throne. 

Truly, it was a great prize to have set before him, but the duchy could not summon the resources to fund the protracted war it would be necessary to fight in order to win it, when Edward passed. It was no shame, therefore, to acknowledge that fact and profess oneself content with Normandy alone when that time came. 

He looked at her, astonished. How could this be? Surely Cousin Edward would father a son of his own on his young wife? 

Padmé looked solemnly at him, weighing her words. There would never be a son born of Edward. 

Again, he asked, how could this be? 

Padmé hesitated, searching for the words that would give understanding to an eleven year old boy. 

Finally she explained it thus. Cousin Edward had decided to make a eunuch of himself in order to have the English crown come to Normandy. He, Ben, would one day be Normandy. The dukedom came to him in right of her, and her advice was this, when that time came ask first for suitable recompense, make the price high, and then stand aside and repudiate the right to the throne. 

True understanding came to him much later of his grandmother’s well-intentioned words, and that she must have spoken them knowing the time left to her was short. He honoured her for her wise counsel and concern for him, truly, but there was this thing inside of him, this otherness, whereby he knew, if he could, he would have the English crown for himself and Normandy too, contrary to his grandmother’s advice. 

This was the way with him, if something was his, truly his, he couldn’t just let it go but would fight to keep it. How much more his could the English crown be, when his cousin had sacrificed carnal knowledge of his wife and the begetting of sons from his own loins in order for him to have it? 

All he needed were the riches to fully fund the enterprise and sons aplenty – and to secure his borders.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter begins with the mention of pregnancy and childbirth. If that's a problem, best miss this one.

The months following Varaville, and most of the year after, were the quietist he’d known as duke. For sure he’d had to ride out a couple of times, but it was easy work compared to what had gone before. 

For Anakin’s birth he had been away fighting. For Edward’s he was home, standing outside the chamber where his wife was struggling to bring forth new life, hearing her cries and pressing himself against the wall as people – women – bustled past him in a great hurry, clucking at him with annoyance so that he tried to compress his six foot frame into something smaller, less intrusive. 

He raged at himself with each piteous cry. He had denied her the comfort of his mother, ensconced at La Seigneurie with those traitorous girls. Why hadn’t he just sent them packing back to France? Did she suffer so, bringing Anakin to birth? 

He was beside himself with worry now, standing in a cold passageway listening to her cry out with pain and effort. 

Finally, he could bear it no longer, pushing open the door and shouldering aside those whom would impede his progress to his wife’s side. She was braced on the birthing stool, shift rucked up over her hips, sweating and panting with effort as the midwife crouched before her murmuring encouragement. 

“Sweetheart!” 

She gasped out his name, expressions of relief and concern flitting across her face at his presence. Then he was at her side, sliding one arm around her as she removed her grip from the stool to latch onto his other arm. Ye gods! She had a grip like a vise. Not for the first time his little wife took him aback with the force of her latent physical strength. 

He pressed close to her, murmuring encouragement as she returned to her work. Then something was sliding out between her legs, a tiny human figure, red and wet, with an unmistakeable tuft of black hair – his eyes suddenly blurred and he couldn’t see properly. He pressed his lips against his wife’s temple in a soft kiss, murmuring reassurances, his voice cracking as he spoke. 

He was being nudged and a pair of shears held out to him. They wanted him to cut the cord. He couldn’t really see because of the blurring of his eyes but managed somehow. He heard a slap and a sharp cry, instinctively surging forward toward the sound to protect his child. He was pushed back by sheer weight of numbers. Was the whole of Rouen in this room? 

Pushed to the sidelines, his wife now surrounded by females, he surreptitiously dabbed at his eyes with his sleeve. He was backing up to leave when a bundle was pressed against him, instinctively his arms curled around it. He looked down on a tiny red face with more wrinkles than a dried plum, topped by tufted black hair – the face of his newborn son. 

“Edward, he whispered, it is papa.” 

Eyes flickered open in response and then closed once more. 

“He knows me”, he blurted out, and then felt foolish. 

The midwife hummed what might be agreement and turned back to Rey. 

His eyes were blurring again as he gazed down at the tiny mite in his arms, instinctively rocking his body gently back and forth ... if his enemies could see him now they would think him weak. Ah, well, he thought dismissively, he’d just have to make an example of them and kill them quicker. 

A woman was standing before him now, holding out her arms and nodding toward Edward. Ah, yes, the wet nurse. He handed the precious bundle over to her. 

Catching sight of his wife, he saw that she was now hobbling toward their bed, supported by a female either side. This he could help with. He reached her side, gathering her up in his arms and carrying her to their bed, covering her over with a rug. 

She seemed sleepy. Had they given her something? 

“Are you pleased, my lord?” she murmured. 

“Pleased and proud”, he murmured back leaning over her, his voice still cracking with emotion as he spoke those few words. 

He pushed back tendrils of hair from her face, which was now cooling after her recent exertions. He reached and pulled her loose braid over one shoulder. She looked so young, barely old enough to be childbearing. A wave of guilt washed over him, he ought to have been more mindful of her youth and spared her. 

He leaned forward and kissed her. Her eyes flickered open and then closed again, reminiscent of Edward. 

“I’m sorry, he blurted out, I have not been as careful of you as I should. I will do better.” 

Her eyes flickered again, sleep was drawing her under. 

“What, she murmured, what talk is this? You are kindness itself to me.” 

Her hand groped for his. 

“My one true love”, she murmured before sleep took her. 

His eyes were blurring again as he left her. 

He ordered every bell in Rouen to be rung in celebration and summoned the city fathers. The season of Lent was imminent, but they could at least celebrate his second son’s birth with a single public feast day – at his expense. The elders brought with them the gift of a lidded silver cup, studded with sapphires. He declined to accept it. After what he had seen and heard that day he judged it only right that they present it to his wife directly. 

Leaving their duke’s presence, the city’s older men thought they had given offence with their gift, their duke refusing it for being too paltry a present for his wife. Knowing of his affection for her, when they next presented it, to the duchess herself after her churching, it had been added to and was now brimful with silver coin. Rey accepted it with a beaming smile, the duke nodding his satisfaction when she turned to show it him. 

They breathed easier; any slight to my lady would bring her husband’s wrath down upon them. Such was her pleasure with the gift, she extended her hand for them to kiss and had her children brought down so that they may admire them. My lord duke standing at her side, hand on sword hilt, proudly looking on. 

Of necessity, he must leave her shortly after Edward’s birth, preparing their duchy for the french king’s expected invasion. His wife handled his absences better than he now. Becoming a mother had awakened a visceral instinct in her, he sees it in her eyes, and she wants him to grind the king of France under his heel. Little hellcat! 

As a consequence of his concern for her well-being since witnessing Edward’s birth he heads for home as soon as he winds up business, often arriving back at Rouen when only the night watch are awake. Rousing sleep addled grooms to care for the tired horses of tired men, rather than staying away from her a single moment longer. 

He has had temporary sleeping quarters set up in one of the wall chambers reserved for high status visitors – he will not disturb her and her women by seeking her bed so late. Anyway, she needs her women attendants more than him at the moment as she recovers from Edward’s birth, and they cannot resume sexual relations until she has been churched, symbolically purified before the altar at the cathedral. 

Easter will follow hard on the heels of her churching, and he must be in Rouen to hold Easter court, wearing his ducal crown and being visible to his people. He arrived back late, in time for Easter Day, overlooked the next morning and as a consequence oversleeping. 

The first he knew of it is when the leather curtain to his room is drawn aside and his wife bustles in, with the biddies following hard on her heels. 

“What, still abed my lord, this will not do!” 

As he rubbed sleep from his eyes, she turned and asked for a girdle to be loaned her and advanced to tie his hands and demand a ransom from him. 

“Love, no, he protested, seeing her intent, show mercy on this most holy of days.” 

She laughed darkly. 

“Oh, is that how it is? No, my lord, I will punish you for your impiety. Come, pay what you owe.” 

She had him loosely bound by now, her brows drawn together trying to look ferocious. A certain part of him awoke. 

He sleeps naked, is naked now, as his bare chest visible to all attests. He appealed to her wifely possessiveness. 

“Love, he pleaded; you know that I cannot, not as I am now.” 

She put forth a foot, drawing up the skirt of her gown a little so he can see it tapping out her impatience. 

He can’t help but laugh, but also groaned at her persistence, trying not to utter curse words as he manoeuvred himself out of bed, a rug held haphazardly against his manhood, his bound hands making it difficult to clasp it to him. 

As he anticipated, the biddies are appreciative of his exposed muscular body and begin clucking over it. He feels himself blush scarlet at their lechery. Where is his body squire? He sets up a shout for him, trying to grasp the rug more firmly against himself. 

At last Randal comes, wide eyed with confusion at all the women _and my lady_ in my lord’s quarters. Ben shot him a look which promised retribution later and bid the now quaking Randal to go fetch Mitaka and have him bring a purse of money. 

As they wait, his wife makes a tactical error. She gets too close, checking the binding on his hands (although he wouldn’t spoil her sport now), and before she can blink he has dropped the rug and has her trapped, pressed against him, his encircling arms and bound hands making it impossible for her to pull free. 

If she can be bold, so can he. Uncaring of their audience, he slots his lips over hers in a deep and claiming kiss. She moans into his mouth, her hands travelling to latch themselves in his hair. 

“So, wife, he murmurs breaking the kiss, his lips against her ear, what penance shall I impose on _you_ , now that I have you fast?” 

By the look on her face, he could ravage her where they stand. She pressed herself harder against him and their lips met again, oblivious of their audience. 

A prolonged, discreet cough causes them to break apart – eventually. Mitaka is standing there holding a treasury purse, of the biddies there are no sign. This is why he likes his mother’s maids; they know when to make themselves scarce, not like those interfering tale-bearing young harpies of his wife’s. 

“Your Grace, I apologise, Randal gave me to understand ...” Mitaka trailed off, face reddened but ever the conscientious servant. 

Yes, Mitaka, he interrupted breezily. As you see, Her Grace has taken advantage of my defencelessness and has captured me and imposed ransom. Do pay her, Mitaka, she keeps me from my devotions on this most holy of days.” 

He heard his wife’s muffled huff against his chest, or was it a growl? 

“My lady, Mitaka’s voice was courteous, what ransom have you imposed on His Grace?” 

She named it, voice made small with embarrassment, and Mitaka proceeded to count it out. His wife has to turn within his captive arms to receive payment, the silk of her dress brushing against his base parts providing him with a most enjoyable sensation, scarlet to find the tables turned and she the one now compromised. 

Her obvious mortification hasn’t stopped her asking for ten marks ransom, though, the equivalent of one hundred and twenty silver shillings, a fortune for some. As she clutches the ten gold coins possessively to her, her small hands barely encompassing them, her husband reflects it would take death and destruction to get her to relinquish ownership of them. That’s his girl! 

Mitaka bowed himself out and the two of them are left alone. She standing pressed against him, her back moulded to his chest. 

He put his lips to her ear again and growled, “Let that be a lesson to you, wifey, bewares bearding the warlord in his den.” 

At the word _warlord_ he had felt a quiver run through her. He was going to talk to her about a period of abstinence between them after Edward’s birth, but now – maybe not. 

+++ 

They arrived at Rouen cathedral – six trumpeters announcing their approach to the congregation within. Mass has been delayed due to their duke’s tardiness. 

All is forgiven though, both within the church and amongst the poor people congregated without who will receive a silver penny later as an Easter gift, for their duke has granted them a great favour. His duchess’s hair (their duchess) is uncovered the better to show off the crown on her head, a surprise Easter gift from my lord to his most beloved lady. 

It is wrought with fine strands of gold, forming a filigree of glittering metal into which is randomly set pale sapphires and diamonds. It glitters and glows in the kinetic light of the candlelit cathedral, like my lady’s hair, which is also peerless in its beauty. 

She looks very young, with her hair unbound. With red lips bruised looking in their redness and flushed cheeks, and eyes that shine with adoration every time she looks at her intimidating husband. 

How is it she was not born a princess?, is the wonderment after service when they have ridden back to the fortress, Her Grace riding her horse, Bee, the gift my lord gave in recompense for her maidenhead. 

Wise heads keep their counsel. There is a rumour that my lord intends to be king one day, and would make his duchess a queen. 

There is a corresponding rumour that Duchess Padmé on her deathbed forbade my lord to pursue it, but that my lord, usually deferential to his grandmother’s wishes, defied her and will have it. 

These rumours began when my lord was in his twelfth year.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of angst and Skywalker family drama in this chapter. Mention of Padme's death.

Having the companionship of the biddies instead of her french maids is a good thing. 

The four of them, Sylvette, Claude, Althaea and Christine, are endlessly inquisitive, seeking out gossip but also opportunities to be useful. 

She knew of the existence of poor people, of the less privileged, of course she did. However, growing up at the french court, leading a cosseted, privileged life, she had been spoilt and taught to think only of herself. Hadn’t the situation with Poe been a manifestation of want of meaningful occupation, in part? 

She had not spent a great deal of time in her own county, and such time as she had had been restricted to her own manor, sloughing off the intrigues of the court and, at the end, the ever present cloying presence of Poe. It grieved her now to think she had neglected her own people, sacrificing them in her own pursuit of wellness. 

She was in the late stages of her second pregnancy when they arrived with Leia, with the possibility of hatching her second chick any day when Leia departed without them. She wondered if they’d be resentful of her, for parting them from their mistress, but soon discovered that they were deep in Leia’s confidence and considered the swap an _opportunity_. 

They delved straight into life at Rouen, making a friend almost immediately of Lor San Tekka and putting her to shame that she had not done so herself. She could use the excuse of two pregnancies within such a short space of time, or the indulgence of a fond husband and equally fond _belle-mere_ , who were both content to lift every burden from her shoulders. She knew, however, it was her own self-absorption, learnt at the court of the french king, which was to blame. 

She therefore cast aside her useless embroidery and picked up the makings of a shirt, to be donated through the church to some poor person. Eager to learn, the biddies wanting nothing better than to mentor her, she learnt her first lessons. 

The cloth was rough, she remarked. She was sure they could purchase something finer, for my lord was generosity itself. Clucking ensued. There _might_ be finer fabrics, but these shirts needed to be hard-wearing and take an occasional rough washing and therefore she must take care when setting her stitches. She subsided, duly chastised. 

She then learnt that there were two types of poor – the deserving and the undeserving. 

There was such a thing as undeserving poor? They enlightened her. 

There were those who could not work through no fault of their own. As the Lord had said, ‘The poor are always with us’. There were those who worked but still lacked some of the necessities of life, in spite of their best efforts. These were the deserving poor. 

Then there were those who _would not work_. These ones deserved nothing in the way of help and must be admonished, either by Lor San Tekka or by the Lord Benjamin, and did not deserve her notice or sympathy. The devil made work for idle hands, and my lord duke and his bishop would have none of that in Rouen. 

They began to enumerate the evils of idleness – they had vast knowledge of the subject and endless anecdotes. She began to see why Leia was so fond of them; their chatter was soothing, distracting her from the discomforts of the last stages of her pregnancy. 

From them she learnt much of Ben’s family history. 

There had been nine biddies originally, they told her. Two had died. These two had cared for Leia during her pregnancy and stayed on as nursemaids to Lord Benjamin, and to comfort and support duchess Padmé through her trials and tribulations. They cast down their eyes and looked sorrowful now. She was intrigued but could get no more out of them, only regretful sighs and the exchange of mournful glances between them. 

Three more were living at La Seigneurie; they too had been Padmé’s maids. They were very old now and an era would end with their passing. At this they looked pensive, and she was struck how often their expressions mirrored one another’s. Then they cheered up. They were Leia’s own maids, chosen by Padmé herself as companions for her daughter. 

It was clear that they doted on Ben, Benjamin they always averred, and had a fund of the usual reminisces, gushing over his robust health, the beauty and dignity of his person, his many accomplishments. After Edward was born, she discovered by chance that if she pressed a second glass of wine on them, they were more forthcoming in recalling past events. Events they were eyewitnesses of, or had been told of by eyewitnesses. 

With judicious use of wine and gentle probing, she got most of the family history from them before Leia returned. 

The duchy had always been turbulent and needed its duke’s to be iron like in their nature. Anakin was just such a duke, but Padmé, in the end, was found to be the key component. 

People always thought Lord Benjamin resembled Anakin, probably due to his height and prowess in arms, but it was Padmé they saw most in him. 

She was intrigued. How so? 

He possessed the same certainty that Normandy was safest in his hands, and that his rule was god given. He had the same sense of purpose and strength of will. The biddies faltered a little here, exchanging furtive glances, Lord Benjamin and his grandmother also shared the same inability to forgive a betrayal. 

As they spoke something reached out of the past, an aching memory of a woman’s crushing grief witnessed by this room. Her husband, her lover, grim and determined, ears deaf to soft pleadings, eyes blind to hot tears, repudiating a sacred vow sworn on the cross. 

Two hearts made bleak by his betrayal, his eventually softened by true remorsefulness, hers forever unforgiving. By her will her heart was made wintry and cold, a place where his renewed professions of love could find no purchase, just as his seed had failed to find purchase in the wombs of the young girls he had discarded her for. 

He had not her strength of will. She had worn him down, year-on-year, with her intractableness. They had mutual love for their grandson, but even he could not bridge the divide between them. 

The biddies drooped before her, remembering the sorrows of those days. 

They had come into Leia’s service the first year of Lord Benjamin’s life. His father had lived at court then, for a little while. 

Rey listened but did not speak. 

Han was handsome, could charm birds out of trees and was a scoundrel, but a lovable one. He doted on his son, held him every chance he got – as Lord Benjamin did his children. They sighed heavily, remembering. 

Rey refilled their wine glasses and waited. 

Sometimes, they observed, when you gained your happiness through another’s misery it soured it. A love gained in such a way, for instance, could not flourish but rotted, like a bruised fruit in a barrel, marring all around it. Best, when it was discovered, to pluck it out and cast it away then try to salvage what was left. 

They sighed again. 

Han had left the court before Lord Benjamin’s second year. 

Tears were then wiped from eyes, and they leaned toward one another, seeking solace in clasping each other’s hands. 

She turned the subject. 

What of the English crown? My lord duke had told her there was a hereditary right there? 

Aye, there was. Lord Benjamin was second cousin to the English king through the maternal line, and King Edward wanted him to have it, but not for the right reasons they feared. 

How so? 

His Grace the king had a reputation as a saintly man, indeed was building a marvellous house to god at Westminster. They shook their heads vigorously. They would disagree. He was more pious than saintly and in his heart burned with true hatred, first for his dead mother and then for the Huxes, from the greatest to the least of them, for the murder of his brother Alfred. 

He had made of himself a eunuch amongst men so that Lord Benjamin might have a clear claim in the sight of god and men to the English throne. They nodded portentously. Aye, and every year at Easter renewed the promise, writing it down and sending it under seal to my lord – the promise that my lord should have it. 

They shook their heads. 

Lord Benjamin would have a great deal of trouble they feared, getting the English crown for himself, no matter how many the promises made. 

Possession was nine tenths of the law they had been told, and the Huxes were well established in England. 

The eldest son, Armitage, headed the clan now, though he had a brother who gave him a great deal of trouble and would kill him if he could – Cain to his Abel. Not that Armitage Hux was a righteous man. They shook their heads again, no, not by any means. And if that was not enough, there was another claimant, the Viking king of Norway. 

Edward’s half brother had been king of Denmark, and a rival king had kept him pinned down so that he could not get free and go claim the English throne. 

Desperate, he had promised his rival the English throne after him – had sworn it in blood. They shook their heads once more. What foolishness! 

Harthacnut had died, and so had Magnus whom he had made his heir with a great oath sealed with their mingled blood, so that now Magnus was brother to Harthacnut. 

The biddies hissed through their teeth. 

Blood was sacred to the Vikings, everyone knew that. They were birthed in blood, lived by the spilling of it, sacrificed human blood to their gods. A promise made to Magnus would have died with him, but a blood oath? No, that was something to be passed on and Magnus had passed it on, to his blood, his nephew Harald Sigurdson, known as Hardrada. 

In the two years Harthacnut had worn the English crown he had nearly bankrupted it. 

Twenty one thousand pounds each year he had spent, nearly all the money in the world!, and would have spent more had the Huxes not ended him when they put Edward on the throne instead. 

No, Harald Hardrada would come for a quarter of that. 

He would come when Edward died and the English lords started tearing at each other’s throats over who would next be king. 

Duchess Padmé had foreseen all of this and advised Lord Benjamin not to covet it, to ask instead for ransom to give it up. But it was this way with Lord Benjamin, if he was told a thing was his he would fight to keep it. Every year the English king sent and said it was his. Why, his wife of twenty years was virgin still! 

Even on her deathbed Padmé had worried him about it, to promise her he would do as she asked, hoping to wear down his resolve. He had wept before her, refusing to speak except to beg her forgiveness and ask for her blessing. 

She had held out until the very last and then relented. 

‘I have raised a grandson in my image, she had said, and go to the Maker content’. 

Rey’s mouth felt suddenly parched. She licked her dry lips. 

“What would my lord need to try for the English throne and defeat his enemies?” 

They answered as though reciting catechism. 

“Have the money to fight a long war. Have sons to inherit the spear won land, and the borders of Normandy to be secure.” 

“When he has those three, he will be ready.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> douceur = sweetener

In the aftermath of Varaville he had a lot of work to do. Not as time consuming as preparing for war but of equal importance, rewarding those who helped bring victory - according to their degree and expectation. 

The baggage train was packed with treasures. Those items obviously belonging to the church he set aside and would ensure their safe return. The rest he divided between himself and the men who fought for him, each disbursement weighed in the balance so as not to give too much or too little. 

He also had to be fair regarding his own needs. Henry and Martel had cut a swath through Normandy long and wide, and there would be hungry mouths this winter if he didn’t buy in grain. To this end he would need to fix prices and grant a subsidy in order to prevent inflated prices and subsequent starvation – buying in the surpluses of others came at a high cost. 

The people of the land Finn had trained to draw the bow are an asset to be nurtured by him – he will need them to help smash the Huxes shield wall. However, he is aware of the sensibilities of his seigneurs and counts. The thought that the man whose hand guides the plough is now proficient with a new weapon of war is bound to unsettle many, and he needs to forestall any backlash. 

The bondsmen who were conspicuously brave he freed in limited number and awarded a modest payment, enough for them to want to put themselves at his service again should he ask it. 

To those already free, the Franklin’s, he gave a greater payment, enough to buy their wives a piece of jewellery and a new gown and still have enough over to hide away under the hearth stone. 

The bondsmen he does not free receive a payment of silver coin enough to buy a cow to milk, or an ox to pull a cart or plough, or a fine sow, and still have a little to put away. 

The counts and seigneurs he rewards for the men they have brought with them, whose bellies they must fill and whose bodies they must clothe, and whom they must arm for war. 

He rewarded them so that they may do those necessary things and not feel them burdensome, enough to bestow a _douceur_ if they wish, while still buying their wives a piece of jewellery and a new gown – and perhaps a fine set of gold or silver plate to adorn madam’s table on feast days and make the neighbour ladies whose husbands stayed abed jealous. 

He watched as they mounted up and moved out, looking for signs of dissatisfaction which may lead to trouble later. 

Finn he rewarded with a larger property, after first taking back the manor he had previously bestowed and also taking possession of Désiré-Jean. 

Finn’s reward has come just in time. He has a son now, and his wife’s parents have made the trek from France to Normandy to live as Finn’s pensioners. Finn professes himself well satisfied and he sees that he is. 

As he wound up business, intelligence reached him that Henry and Martel had quarrelled, Martel accusing Henry of poor leadership and hinting at his cowardice. It got very ugly very quickly, and only Henry’s servants dragging him away for the sake of his reason prevented blows being exchanged between them. 

By the time he reached Rouen, further news awaited him. Martel had made it back to his own lands and immediately quarrelled with his captains, who demanded recompense for their lost possessions. 

Martel, a big bellied bully, tried to shout them down, but they would not budge from their grievance. His face grew redder and redder, a pulse visibly beating erratically in his neck, and he then dropped dead at their feet. 

His grieving subjects took the trouble to ensure he really was dead and then stripped the body and household of all its valuables and departed. 

Martel had known four wives but fathered offspring on none of them. His Will stated that his sister would inherit. This lady had two sons, the eldest named for Geoffrey. She resigned her right to the county in favour of this son. 

The younger son was named for his grandfather, Fulk, and was blessed (or cursed) with his grandfather’s nature. Despite his best efforts, Anakin had never been able to put Fulk of Anjou down. 

This young man objected to his brother being awarded the county – he strongly objected. By September, Anjou was locked in a civil war as the brothers did their best to kill one another, ignoring their poor mother’s hysterical pleadings to have done and make peace. 

Anjou would make no more trouble for Normandy in the foreseeable future. 

Ben met Henry in September to set his seal on terms Ben had dictated. These were twofold; the making over to him of disputed land and a renewed promise from Henry not to attack him again. 

The french king sat slumped before him wrapped in a fur lined cloak, hardly speaking. When he did speak it was in a dull monotone. He had aged ten years it seemed since Varaville. 

Only once did he show any sign of animation. One of Ben’s knights cracked a joke, speaking in Norman-French, and Ben laughed at it. Henry’s eyes flicked up, directing a look of pure hatred toward him. Ben saw that look and had no difficulty interpreting its meaning; his border with France would need constant watching. 

He spent all of August with his wife, noticing a sea change in her. 

She had always loved his caresses and had never refused him the marriage due, save during her period of uncleanness after childbed and during her courses. Now, though, she was constantly touching him whenever they were private and such intimacies could be shown openly. She seemed intent on learning the contours of his face and memorising the marks and blemishes on his face and body. 

His body was hard after campaigning all spring and summer, his muscles lean and well defined. She loved to run her hands over his nakedness, pressing kisses to his chest and abdomen, softly stroking his pecs. Eventually, she kissed her way down his abdomen and along the dark hairline that guided her mouth to his penis. Seeing his reaction as she kissed there, she took him in her mouth and cupped him with one hand, grasping his length with the other, ignoring his objections and rendering him supine and speechless. 

It was as if she was mapping him out, the sight, sound and feel of him, against some future time when he was no longer present. As she became more visibly pregnant (August was her fourth month) he though he knew the reason, a little insecurity on her part, and therefore assured her of his love and that there was none other. She looked at him most earnestly then, and asked him if he knew there would never be another for her? 

He humoured her and treated the question as rhetorical, “Yes, love, I know it.” 

“No, no you don’t. If ever another took me as wife it would be my body only he knew, every other part of me would still be yours and yours alone. My eyes would constantly be sick for the sight of you, my body would burn always for your touch, and my heart would never cease to weep tears of blood for the lack of you.” 

She then gave way to passionate weeping. 

Disturbed by her outburst, he gathered her to him, stroking her hair and murmuring reassurance that he was going nowhere. At this she sobbed harder. He understood. This pregnancy was more difficult than the first two. After she gave birth, he would impose a period of abstinence on them both, give her time to be truly well before they once more joined their bodies. 

She could breastfeed this child, he decided, whether a son or daughter, as there was then less chance of her getting pregnant when they recommenced payment of the marriage due. Meanwhile, he held on to her tightly, until at last her sobs died down and she fell into a fitful sleep. His mother was due to visit soon and he would have speech with her. Maybe she knew of some remedy for his poor little wife? 

He issued an edict; anything and everything she wanted must be given her without question. Whatever her whim, it must be carried out and carried out with all haste that she may not be inconvenienced. Should she have cause for complaint, it would go badly for all. 

He noticed that his wife was becoming more beloved by the day by the citizens of Rouen, particularly the poor people whose benefactress she had become. 

Mitaka had told him that she had ordered a potage to be prepared daily, adding a little meat on Sundays, for the relief of the poor people at his gate, along with a piece of bread. He mentioned she had offered her ransom money to him as subsidy. 

At the thought Mitaka had charged his wife for viands, Ben stiffened, his hand going instinctively to the hilt of his sword. Mitaka hurriedly assured him he had not taken her money, and breathed easier when Ben dropped his hand and nodded his approval. 

As an unexpected benefit of his wife’s charity, his relations with Lor San Tekka improved. 

His dealings with his bishop had been strained from the start, both in the aftermath of Snoke’s execution and with Odo’s subsequent appointment. After the shock of finding Mauger with Arlette had ebbed, and righteous indignation yielded place to rational thought, it occurred to San Tekka that Mauger’s downfall may have been stage managed by the duke. After the duke had denied all knowledge of the woman in the case, doing so while gazing limpidly at him, he was sure of it. 

When the duke imposed a fine on the bishopric of Falaise of exactly double the fine imposed upon him after Snoke’s murder, it added insult to injury. 

True, he had then moved quickly and had his preferred candidate appointed as replacement bishop of Falaise, presenting the duke with a fait accompli by getting the pope’s approval before announcing it. San Tekka’s candidate was a monk of such rigorous asceticism that his own monks had rebelled against him. As the current pope was trying to reform the church, rooting out such unsatisfactory priests as Mauger and expelling them, there was no way for the duke to overturn the appointment and keep the pope’s love. 

As he smugly gave my lord duke the glad tidings, His Grace kept silent and gazed at him unblinkingly. San Tekka heard his voice begin to falter as he gazed into those flinty eyes, wilting under that menacing stare. He made a pact with himself as his narrative ground to a stumbling halt, should he survive this day he would never openly cross his duke again. 

He had survived, and as the pope had had the happy thought to send a letter of commendation to my lord duke, promising to incline his ear in favour of Normandy in any given case, His Grace allowed himself to be placated and let the matter lie. 

San Tekka had gazed into the gaping maw of the wolf and felt its hot breath at the back of his neck and learnt a lesson; it was not wise to make mock of Kylo Ren. 

The duchess approaching him to ask what could be done in the way of good works in Rouen and wider Normandy was a lifeline which he clutched at gratefully. Her Grace was a way to build bridges with the duke, for it was she whom he loved. 

For the glory of mother church, of course, he couldn’t resist petitioning her for certain privileges to be given under her seal which he knew the duke wouldn’t grant unless his bishop looked the other way over a matter, or gave assent to some scheme which further weighed down his conscience. He was sure, though, if she granted them her fond husband would not revoke them. 

He had underestimated her, she was not so naive or eager to please as he had supposed. 

Her slim brows drew together in a frown, “I will see about this when my lord returns”, she answered. 

He bowed to her will and began to speak of how to aid the poor.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter refers to a bigamous marriage arrangment and polyamorous arrangement.

His mother’s arrival in time for the feast of St. Michael’s Mass was a cause for rejoicing. 

She arrived looking well and was in fine fettle, eager to see her newest grandchild and bearing gifts for all. He stood with his wife at her horse’s flank while she drained the stirrup cup offered up to her in welcome, and then tenderly lifted her down from the saddle. 

She was as nothing in his arms and he kissed her cheek before stepping back while his wife surged forward, uttering a breathy _‘Maman’_ and hugging her convulsively. He churlishly refused to look to his wife’s french maids and followed his mother, his wife hanging off her arm, indoors to where her grandsons waited on her in the Great Hall. 

Anakin was a toddler now, holding onto Clémence’s hand, while Edward was clasped in his wet nurse’s arms. 

She cooed over Anakin’s dark beauty, so reminiscent of her son’s, earning the smiling approbation of Clémence whose darling he was, before taking Edward from the nurse’s arms and tenderly looking down at him. 

At seven months, Edward was long of body and slender of frame. He was almost weaned now and had enough teeth to make his wet nurse wince when she put him to the breast. He lay comatose in his grandmother’s arms, having not long been fed, showing an angelic mien, his full lips forming a perfect bow in repose. 

His mother laughed, remarking on his similarity to Anakin, and therefore to his sire, sans patrician nose and with ears not so prominent. Ben shifted on his feet, casting a surreptitious glance around to see if any dare laugh at his mother’s wit, his darkling look promising retribution on any that did. Only the biddies were smiling, but as their smiles were fond as always, he forgave them. 

She handed Edward back to the young woman who had principal charge of him. Edward may be slim, but asleep he was a dead weight. 

He could see his wife wished to be alone with his mother, so he caught the biddies’ eyes and jerked his head to the door, beyond which approaching footsteps and feminine voices could be heard. 

As always, they were alert to be busy in other people’s affairs, and stood ready to intercept his wife’s returning maids and draw them off, bombarding them no doubt with questions about affairs at La Seigneurie and winkling out any secrets. He strolled off to attend to the debriefing of the escort and the proper disposal of baggage. 

Rey did indeed want to be private with Leia, brushing off inquires about her health, spending a little more time on enumerating the perfections of her children, before launching into the subject which was causing her so much pain of heart. 

Leia listened to her concerns, brushing away her daughter’s tears as they fell, and clasping her hands in a firm, comforting grip. Hearing her out, she began to speak as Rey’s words dried up because of being unable to utter more, her voice suffused with tears. 

“Dearest," she began gently," you won’t change his mind. Nothing and no-one can change his mind. If he is able, he will try for the English throne no matter whom or what stands against him.” 

“Then I hope he is never able, Rey burst out, tears once more over spilling from her eyes. I hope the French king comes against us year on year, until Ben is too old to fight and Anakin rules Normandy!” 

“And what of the poor people who suffer when king’s fight," inquired Leia gently. "What of them, my daughter?” 

In answer, Rey buried her face in Leia’s lap and mumbled something indistinguishable. 

Leia gently removed the young woman’s coronet and veil and began to unloose her braids, carding her hands through the chestnut tresses with the intent to soothe her daughter’s overwrought nerves. 

“My mother," she began, eyes mistily looking back into the past, "tried everything she knew, year-on-year, to dissuade Ben from what you fear." 

"With hindsight, it was a mistake to have Ben swear liege homage to Edward, and have it sworn to him in turn. We didn’t realise then, you see, what Edward carried in his heart – such hatred for his brother’s murderers with no possibility for forgiveness. When my father and mother realised what he intended, it was too late, the die was cast.” 

“Pity that young woman, his wife, who publicly avers she is made the happiest woman in Christendom by her marriage in order to conceal the humiliation Edward has visited upon her. She is untouched, a virgin still, and with every ebbing of her family’s fortunes Edward puts her away, sending her to some convent, putting her anywhere except by his side, her family recalling her when the tide turns once more in their favour.” 

Rey raised her head in wonderment, eyes red rimmed, “He does that?” 

“Yes, my darling, he does. Leia put her hand under Rey’s chin and smiled down at her. Not all women of our degree, my love, make a marriage that is based first on affection.” 

Rey blushed and put her head back in Leia’s lap, her arms encircling her beloved mother-in-law’s waist. Leia resumed carding through her hair. 

“Are you comfortable, my daughter?” 

Rey nodded, answering with a watery “Yes, Maman.” 

“The trick here, Leia continued, I think, is to reconcile oneself to the inevitable and trust Ben not to over-reach himself. To question his intent would, I think, be a mistake. To profess doubt in his ability to do the tasks he has set himself would give offence, I believe. I cannot stress enough how important trust is in a marriage, in any relationship, really, but especially with one such as my son.” 

Rey understood immediately what Leia meant. Under the grim exterior which her warrior husband wore for the world, beat a passionate needy heart which required professions of unstinting and constant devotion from her. 

To think he would cease to share confidences with her, which he loved to do needing her admiring encouragement of his various endeavours, was a thought not to be borne. She knew she couldn’t bear that, to lose her position as helpmeet and confidante and revert to a mere vessel for childbearing, learning of his triumphs and set-backs second or even third hand, or worse, to have him turn away from her and seek comfort and counsel within the arms of another. 

An image rose up of how she liked to lay across his chest resting her chin on her crossed arms, Ben leaning against the banked up pillows of their bed, softly stroking her back and speaking of what he must do next to make them secure. No, she would not yield place to another for want of trust in her husband. 

Leia saw her words had impacted on her daughter’s heart. Rey’s face was now upturned to hers, nodding agreement, lips moving without uttering sound, quivering with a repressed torrent of unuttered words. 

“Maman!” the cry was one of gratitude as the girl rose and cast herself in her arms, pressing grateful kisses onto her cheek. Leia laughed, pulling Rey down beside her and holding her tight. 

It had been very hard letting Han go all those years ago, and for a while she had mourned that there would be no more children. Wait, her mother had counselled, a daughter will come. And here she was, so loving and as needy for a mother’s love as any mother could wish her to be. 

The chair Leia was sitting on was not meant to seat two, and Rey was showing every inch of her five month third pregnancy. She sat her instead on a cushion placed on the floor between her feet, Rey resting against her knees, and began to re-plait her hair. 

A memory stirred. 

“Are you well, my daughter?” she asked. 

“I am well, my mother”, came the sleepy reply. 

Ben was furious. He didn’t know who he was more angry with, the french maids or de Harcourt, a neighbour of his mother’s. A bonny fighter it was true, with the strength of an ox – unfortunately, with an ox’s brain capacity. 

His mother being recently deceased, and in want of a woman to manage him, he had decided he wanted to marry Tallie and Kaydel – yes, the both of them. 

Not for de Harcourt the usual arrangement of wife and concubine(s). No! The two girls (refusing to be parted) had persuaded him that their friendship must remain equal and untainted by jealousy; therefore they must both be wife. All decided without reference to him, he thought bitterly, their duke, how their stupidity would affect him. 

He hurled a stool across the room. How was he meant to get this past San Tekka or the fanatical bishop of Falaise? Did they have any idea what a fine line he trod with the church? Did they care? He felt his hands go to his hair to pull it. Ingrates, the lot of them! 

His mother’s account of de Harcourt’s courtship of the two maids would have had him weeping with mirth had it not led indirectly to his involvement. 

Apparently, all you had to do these days to get a wife (wives, he amended savagely), was to seat a virgin on either forearm and then lift them in a show of brute strength, parading them around the dining hall before the eyes of the neighbours, before the eyes of his mother - _the dolt_ \- and have them squealing fit to bring down the roof. 

Said virgins were then so overcome by this display of manly strength, they sloughed off a thousand years of Christian teaching and proposed that he marry the both of them. And de Harcourt, who would know better if he didn’t have the reasoning capacity of a gnat, was agreeable to it. 

He had done it too. Bamboozling the timid clerk who had administered the rites, placing his ring on each girl’s finger and standing with them after, brass faced, before the altar to hear Mass. And now the two girls had the bare faced cheek to petition him through his mother for a pension, their families having cast them off for marrying a Norman. Sweet Jesu, he hoped they’d had the sense not to write they’d both married the same man! 

He’d lay all the blame of this on his mother, if he could, but he needed to keep her goodwill. There was only one thing for it, he’d have to kill de Harcourt (his sword hand clenched reflexively) and send the girls to a convent. A french convent, maybe? 

Of course they were both pregnant, of course they were he thought bitterly. As if he didn’t have enough to trouble him. Was it really too much to ask of de Harcourt to keep his dick to himself until his duke had been consulted? Could he not have used his hand for relief as other men did, rather than needing to deflower virgin’s right, left and centre, until he had his duke’s approval to do so? 

Aye, and there was no time to stop the quarter day payment to their families. He nodded in self affirmation, let them repay _that_ before they started asking him for money! His sense of ill usage threatened to overwhelm him. 

Gloom descended upon him. No doubt his wife would have opinions, his mother too. He tried to calm himself, to think his way out of this. He was adamant though, he was paying no pensions to those two!


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals with pregnancy and childbirth and hunting.
> 
> Talbot = extinct hunting dog. pure white and believed to correspond in size to the modern day beagle
> 
> Alaunt = extinct hunting dog. corresponds to modern day mastiff
> 
> Courser = a hunter, although horses were treated as multi-purpose in medieval times, except for the destrier which was a horse bred for war

The feast of Michaelmas came and went, and with its passing the heat returned to heaven and a heavy morning dew daily bathed meadow, hedge and tree with silver droplets and made cats cradles of the spider’s webs in the hedgerow. 

The stamp of the night watches feet could be heard at the castle gate, their arms flapping in an effort to keep warm in the autumn chill. My lord gave gracious permission for a brazier to be lit for their comfort. 

October brought also the rapid fall of leaves from trees and because of this the scent of deer and boar hung heavy on the earth’s new formed mantle, tantalising to the noses of the castle’s hounds. 

Roland and Maud began to fret and whine in the kennel and then gave tongue, calling their master to the hunt. Talbot and Alaunt raised their plangent voices too, bass, tenor and treble combining; _Come, master, come. Let us away to the field_. 

My lord heard the hunt’s siren call and called for his chestnut courser and roused like-minded companions to mount up and join him in the hunt. 

The castle larder then began to be stocked with venison and wild boar, and those who had won my lord’s favour received a haunch of venison or prime cut of wild pig as a most welcome gift, while the hounds gorged on offal. 

Meanwhile, my lord’s visits to the kitchens increased exponentially, and not even his kisses and the squeezing of the stout waist of his female cook, who’d known him man and boy, could save him from a rap with spoon or ladle because of foraging where he should not. 

He retreated then, laughing, hiding behind his back a cold venison pasty or a piece of the plum tart he so loved which he’d palmed, sharing the crusts with Roland and Maud and having them lick his fingers clean so no evidence of his larceny could be found about his person. 

Roland and Maud were allowed in the Great Hall now, his mother having bought his wife a lapdog. Rey would love any gift bought her by Leia, but the gift of Purkoy was beyond anything she had ever had before. She took to carrying him everywhere even to Mass, secreted in her fur muff. 

The feel of his tiny body under her hands, the way it rose and fell whilst he slept on her lap, emitting soft whimpers as his feet moved as though he dreamed of chasing something, all were endlessly fascinating to her. Her dressmaker saw an opportunity and made a coat for him in scarlet, with the twin golden lions of Normandy embroidered thereon. 

My lady clapped her hands with delight and ordered a scarlet surcoat for herself to match. Then she must have more coats made for him, dressing and undressing him throughout the day as her fancy took her, her dressmaker indulging her every whim. Mitaka began to frown over the accounts submitted for payment by the sharp elbowed tradeswoman. 

My lord was content to indulge her in anything which brought her happiness, and distracted her from the discomforts of the latter stage of her pregnancy. Anyway, there was a benefit to him; Roland and Maud were allowed in the house now, his wife having overcome her fear of them somewhat. 

Instead, she crowed with laughter as Purkoy challenged them to trial by combat from the safety of her lap, his body stiff with hostility and all four feet lifting into the air as the aggressive fury of his yips convulsed his tiny body. 

He must be brought into her room on his cushion every morning while she dressed, interrupting the putting on of her clothes to feed him a titbit, he sitting on his haunches and waving his front paws in the most adorable manner as she teased whether he should have it or not. 

She taught him to roll over to the right or to the left according to the pointing of her finger, rewarding him with a kiss and a treat amongst much fond laughter, my lord also looking fondly on. 

November came in bringing gales and sudden squalls. His duchess had paid to have the horn panels in the windows, few though they were, replaced with glass, but even with these improvements and the storm shutters closed tight, something of the tempest permeated the rooms of the castle and the fires burned sluggishly. 

Mid-November my lady detected a fever in Purkoy, as evidenced by his hot, dry nose and listlessness. Anguished, she called her husband to her side, wringing her hands and looking to him to make all right and to be as it was before. 

He reassured her that this was the way with dogs sometimes, and best let Purkoy rest and all would be well. It seemed, however, rational thought would not do, for at this his wife burst into tears and cast herself into Leia’s arms, sobbing out her apology for having killed Purkoy. 

Her lord, rattled by this domesday utterance, sent for his kennel-man, who took Purkoy away as his wife fretted and paced with worry. Finally, he returned and Purkoy did look brighter from his ministrations (which involved taking the tiny dog out to the meadow and letting him nose out the correct grass to chew upon to make himself throw up and purge the bitter bile from his stomach). 

Used to dealing only with men and hounds, he did not moderate how he framed his speech or his manner of delivery, but sternly told the quaking duchess to stop stuffing the poor little mite with so many sweetmeats and to walk him more. Let him rest now, he ordered, and in the morning all will be well. At this, he bowed to his duke and stalked off shaking his head at the folly of womankind. 

Chastened by this confirmation of neglect of her precious gift, Rey swung into action, ready to atone for her previous sins of omission with selfless acts worthy of repentance. 

Her fur muff must be fetched and placed on top of Purkoy’s cushion, which in turn was placed on their bed. My lord was staggered to learn he must sleep elsewhere tonight, for Purkoy must sleep on his part of the bed under my lady’s watchful eye. 

From that day on, throughout the day, her headdress was removed and changed for a hat, her slippers changed for stout shoes, her furs draped around her shoulders and she sallied forth with her attendants in tow, a leash attached to Purkoy's collar. 

As she ventured out of the castle gates an armed escort turned out with her, as Purkoy sniffed and urinated and defecated his way around the meadow. 

Ben observed these gyrations in disbelief and turned to his mother with one word on his lips; “Why?” 

Leia laughed her gravel throated laugh and leaned toward him, whispering words beyond his comprehension; “Baby brain!” 

The last few days before Advent approached, and with it heavy frosts came. The duke forbade his wife to go out with her little dog unless enough bright sunshine had warmed the air, and she must return home well before it faded. 

Wrapped in her furs and with her velvet fur trimmed hat and mittens, she professed herself wonderfully warm. Her lord’s jaw quivered and he repeated himself, promising to come fetch her himself if she disobeyed and growling that she would not like that. 

A pleasurable sensation passed down her spine at the sound of that growl and hence to her nether regions. She disagreed, she thought she would like that very much she replied saucily, watching his eyes darken and become molten in their gaze. 

She was now too big to ravish easily, growing bigger by the day, and, currently bundled in layers of fur, velvet, silk and linen, harder to get at too. He contented himself with growling at her again, and watched as she wriggled a little as though afflicted with some bodily disturbance and flushed prettily. 

They parted, understanding one another, she with tripping steps toward the castle gates, he going about his business with a distinct spring to his step. 

She had come to love her walks with her dog and maids. Even though the sun shone, there were still pockets of frost to adorn the purple leaves of hawthorn and their bright red haws as she stepped out. She spotted sloes on their bare branches and knew them to taste sweeter after frost. 

There were teasels grown before the hedgerow too, and a flock of gold coloured birds would rise up from them as they passed, with red and black faces. Goldfinches, she was told, almost a hundred of them surely. 

December came and frost penetrated deeper into the earth and froze standing water. It was also a time for feasting and gift giving and crown wearing, and also the last month of Rey’s pregnancy and therefore the most difficult physically. She was spared as much as she could be, Leia standing in for her wherever possible. 

She did, however, give a feast in her own behalf the week before Christmas. 

She had reached out to notables in Rouen through their wives, who, she had found, were honoured by her notice. They were not of the nobility, but were rich, and because of her patronage San Tekka found them more ready to fund his projects for the relief of the poor. She greeted them with my lord, my lord’s lady mother and San Tekka. 

She made a formal introduction to the duke, commending her guests to him, these ladies of Rouen who so tirelessly toiled, in a most Christian manner, to be found in good works. 

The duke then paid them a great courtesy and bowed to them, inviting them to table and offering his arm to the chiefest (richest) lady among them, while his wife leaned on the arm of the lady’s husband and thereby did him great honour, for it was known my lord duke was a jealous guardian of his little duchess. 

The wealth of his wife was most ostentatiously on show. The table covered with white damask, and silver salts a foot high adorned even the lower tables. The platters were of silver, the drinking vessels of fine glass. 

Liveried servants stood ready with ewers filled with warm scented water to wash away any grease or sauce from sticky fingers, kneeling and holding a bowl underneath as they poured over bejewelled fingers a cleansing stream, a white linen napkin draped over their shoulders for the guest to dry hands with. 

Ben was proud of his wife at all times. Indeed, she just had to be and he was proud of her. Looking around the tables and at the combined wealth seated there – now under obligation to him – he was made prouder. 

For now, he would enjoy the holiday season, but soon, very soon, he would hint to these persons how they may keep his love. He looked fondly upon his duchess; it was all possible thanks to her. 

As the month wore on, the cold deepened, the worst winter weather in memory it was said, and the voice of the wolf began to be heard throughout Normandy, even to Rouen. 

At the Christmas exchange of gifts there was one significant gift worth mentioning, amongst all those given and received. 

Rey had been disturbed by Clémence’s devotion to Anakin. An almost slave like devotion. Not wanting the girl’s will to be subjugated to another’s as hers had been, she decided the little girl should be educated and go to the cathedral five days out of the seven to learn to read and write french, and to read and speak Latin – the lingua franca of the times. 

Ben, amused by the little girl’s stubborn adherence to her dislike of him, and the prissy little voice she spoke in when, and only when, he was in her presence, came upon her crouched in a quiet corner after she had been given the news. She was weeping. 

Upon seeing him, she turned her face up, nose in the air, as she was wont to do, dashing away the signs of her distress without success. He silently handed her his handkerchief and received a watery ‘thank you’ when she’d done. He spoke kindly to her and received the news that she did not wish to be educated, and who was to watch over Anakin if she was not there? 

He assured her that Anakin would be pleased to see her at the end of each day. She looked unconvinced. He tried another tack. Anakin too would be educated in time. What a shame if he grew beyond her through _her_ lack of education. She was much struck by this thought. 

Furthermore, he continued, she ought to have something for herself and not be waiting on Anakin all the time, and an education was a fine thing to have – so too was having her own pony to ride to and fro on. Her eyes grew wide, her own pony? 

It was agreed between them, if he received a good report from His Grace the bishop come Christmastide, she should have her own pony. 

She was transformed in an instant, and he saw the single-minded determination which characterised her ignite. He must start the search then and there for a suitable mount, he decided, for he made no doubt she would be her tutor’s star pupil and claim her reward from him. 

She had fulfilled his expectations and received in return a white mare, with gentle, dark eyes and a soft mouth. He chuckled when he received word shortly, from the captain of her daily escort, that she was in a fair way to become a fine horsewoman already. He hoped for a daughter in Clémence’s mould. 

January came and the skies threatened snow. His wife missed the New Year revels, her time almost upon her and unable to find relief. 

On the fifth day of the month, the eve of Epiphany, a storm blew up, the wind howling around the castle, cathedral and town. The fires were banked up against the blast and his duchess went into labour. 

He stood once more at her side, better prepared this time for the sight and sound of her suffering, giving her his forearm to clutch at with her customary death grip and watched his third son make his entry into the world of men. 

He cut the cord as before, and when they put the tiny bundle in his arms he looked down and saw his wife in this child’s mien. As a consequence he raised him to his lips, planting a soft kiss on his reddened, wrinkled forehead and breathed the name they had agreed upon – Benjamin. 

“Hark!” someone said. He raised his head, listening. All was silent outside, the storm had ceased as he’d contemplated the perfection of this latest son, the snow fell softly and silently now. 

In later years, these events were remembered and embellished. For of course what came to be had been ordained, men said. Benjamin Skywalker-Solo was fortune’s favoured child, as the very heavens had attested at his birth.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IN THIS CHAPTER ACTS OF VIOLENCE ARE DEPICTED COMMENSURATE WITH THE ACTIONS OF AN 11TH CENTURY WARLORD AND SET WITHIN DYNASTIC STRUGGLE. THESE INCLUDE MENTION OF A HANGING, CORPORAL PUNISHMENT AND DESTRUCTION OF PROPERTY.
> 
> IF THIS IS A PROBLEM, BEST STOP READING NOW.
> 
> I'VE MARKED THE RELEVANT PARAGRAPHS *****

In mid-January a delegation came from Rouen to seek audience with the duke and beg for his assistance. Snow was lying on the ground still and had frozen, as was the earth underneath. In consequence the wolf had become desperate and bold and had now turned to hunting men, reports were coming in from the surrounding villages that bondsman and Franklin alike were being terrorised. 

None durst go out as twilight approached. During daylight they must gather in groups armed with sickle and axe as they tended their animals or foraged for firewood. As darkness fell the wolf was at the door of the thatched huts, nose pressed against the sill, drawing in great breaths through their noses to gain scent of the occupants – the better to know their prey. 

Fire they feared. A burning brand taken from the fire pit and passed before the sill caused them to retreat only to come again in a little while or the next night, scratching at the earth before the flimsy door even to the beaten earth floor beyond. Pity the one of meagre means, desperately keeping an ember burning throughout the long winter night. 

A cry had gone up therefore; would their duke come save them? 

Yes, yes he would, but first he negotiated with them for funds for a bounty, payable throughout Normandy. 

Afterwards, he trod the steps to his wife’s room and found her lying on her side, her head resting on an arm curled under her pillow the better to look down at their son feeding. Benjamin was latched onto her sucking furiously, eyes closed and his tiny hands pressed against her breast either side of the teat. His heart swelled with love for the both of them. 

His mother and the biddies were sat before the hearth, sewing and gossiping. He nodded to acknowledge their presence while unbuckling his sword belt and laying his weapon down on a kist. He sat on the bed and leaned his body over his wife’s, taking hold of the hand she raised toward him and gently kissing her fingers. He did not let go as he enquired about her health. 

“Are you well, my wife?” 

“I am well, my husband.” 

It always gave him a thrill when she spoke of him so. In truth, he was a little apprehensive to tell her he was riding out once more so soon after her childbed. 

He saw her brow furrow as though in disappointment as he broke the news, and then her expression cleared. Her subsequent answer surprised him, for there was no expression of regret at losing his companionship or inquiry as to whether he could instead send another. Rather, she nodded her acceptance and agreed he must indeed go and make all safe for his people. 

He then knew a feeling of insecurity over her not seeming to care whether he stayed or went, and joked with her, “What is this, wife, are you not sorry to part with me?” 

“Indeed I am, my love,” she replied complacently, “but I know I must share you with your duchy and am therefore content to see you go for a little while.” 

Well, this was news! He wasn’t quite sure he liked her to be so sanguine about his going. Her usual neediness meant that he must kiss and cajole and soothe before going, putting wise counsellors about her in his stead, making sure she would fret and be on the watch for his return. This version of Rey seemed able to cope perfectly well without him. 

She was looking down at their son, who had let go the teat. Gently she settled him on the pillow on which she’d laid him, comatose and replete with milk. She fumbled with the laces of her chemise and Ben leant forward and fastened them for her. She then wound her arms around his lowered neck and he lifted her from the bed as he straightened, scooting forwards the better to hold her close to him. 

“Please don’t think I won’t miss you,” she quietly besought him, “for indeed I will, but Maman said I must think of your going away as loaning you to the duchy – but only for a little while. So now, when you go, I am content to loan you out, but only that I may redeem you quicker.” 

“Sweetheart!” his voice was thick with emotion as he pulled her to him to kiss her soundly. She was so responsive to his touch, putting her hands in his hair and tugging it in a way that sent his blood surging south. He broke the kiss, giving a queer little laugh, breathing a little heavier. 

“Never,” he averred, “did a man have a better wife.” 

“And never,” she replied, “did a woman have a more handsome and desirable husband.” 

What was a man to do except pull her back into his arms and kiss her soundly? He wrapped his long arms around her. 

They exchanged mutual professions of love between kisses until at last he must go, promising to come sit with her later. He laid her down, drawing her hair over one shoulder the way he liked to see it, and pressed one final kiss to her lips. 

He placed a kiss on his fingertips and pressed it to his sleeping son’s forehead and then rose to go, his wife’s eyes now heavy with sleep. 

He had forgotten about the biddies, who all cast down their eyes at his look. His mother, however, was gazing back at him, something like pride in her eyes. He blushed and lowered his own eyes, picking up his sword and hurrying from the room. 

He slept with his wife that night and submitted to her making love to him, unhappy that he was not as yet able to reciprocate – her churching was some weeks off and he was forbidden her until then. She told him she was glad to love him and only needed his arms around her to be content, and to know she was loved by him. Gladly, he gave her her heart’s desire. 

He woke at Benjamin’s cry and carried him to his mother to latch onto the breast, banking up the pillows behind her and building up the fire which was fading. He sat in his robe watching her feed their son, her skin made golden by the flickering light of fire and candle, a soft, secretive smile on her face. 

She had wept with gratitude when he first told her she may feed her child herself, it was unheard of for persons of their status, but he wanted to protect her well-being as much as his selfish impulses would allow. 

Seeing her now, he wished he’d allowed it with Anakin and Edward, but being ten years older than she and having waited so long for her, he had panicked in his need for sons and risked her health. He would never do so again. He had been... frightened, yes, frightened when she had struggled with this last pregnancy, so afraid to lose her. 

He had survived the loss of his grandparents - he didn’t think he could survive the loss of her. 

He left her just before dawn. She was groggy with sleep and Benjamin was settled once more in his crib. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, not wanting to draw her from the land of dreams, and whispered that he’d be back soon. She returned the pressure of his hand and let sleep take her. He glanced around the room, all was as it should be, and then went to get ready for the road. 

He was three weeks in the field, waging a war of attrition against the wolf packs. As news of the bounty payable on each wolf’s head filtered through, more and more of his nobility rode out to clear the land of the scourge – as ever, he could always rely on their greed. 

As he moved south news was brought to him. Count Hubert had succumbed to a winter ailment and passed. There was no possibility to reach Maine for his interment, so he continued with the work in hand – the captain of Ambrières would do the right thing by him. 

A week later, as he had thoughts of heading for home, further news was brought from Maine. The husband of the late countess’s sister was claiming the county backed by Geoffrey of Mayenne, who he had released the previous year after Varaville when he had sworn simple homage. Ambrières was besieged. 

Those closest to him, when he received this news, judging by the expression on his face, knew they wouldn’t be going home just yet. 

He wasn’t equipped to conduct war, but reasoned that on his worst day he had the beating of Geoffrey of Mayenne, and paused only to despatch letters to his wife and mother. 

He continued his journey south, gathering men to him as he went. Finally, he reached Maine, to be told news of his coming had reached the two rebels and the siege had been lifted. They had fled to the capital city, Le Mans. 

He paused at Ambrières for a few days to rest his men and horses and await the reinforcements he’d asked his mother to send. Even with these he didn’t really have enough manpower, but nevertheless set off the day after they arrived. 

He drew up before Le Mans and sent to demand the handing over of the two traitors to their lord. He received a very derisory reply, probably penned because of over-confidence due to his lack of numbers. It was missed, though, that he had enough to surround the city, albeit stretched thin. 

He gave the word and archers stepped out of the ranks led by Finn Neville. They advanced within one hundred paces of the city and then drew their bows, their arrows turned into burning brands by means of pitch and flame. They fired in an arc into the air, the arrows soaring over the city walls to lodge in thatch and wood and begin a fire which could not be put out. 

Archers recalled they stood alongside their horses, waiting. 

A great hubbub could be heard in the city. The waiting Normans gave grim smiles, imagining not only the fighting of the fires, but also the fighting with Geoffrey of Mayenne’s men as the townsfolk sought to capture him and his misbegotten ally. 

***** 

The gates opened and the city fathers dragged out the two men and what was left of their bodyguard. He hanged them from the walls of Le Mans. He then had the elders stripped and whipped in plain sight for giving succour to their lord’s enemies and for their previous insolence. 

He demanded ransom, and set it high. When they brought it to him it was with a very different demeanour, wearing torn mantles and with ashes in their hair and halters around their necks – subjugated. 

He looked at them with snarling grimness as they counted it out before him, petitioning him most humbly to take it. 

He accepted it, informing them that he’d not deal with them so compassionately if they raised their hand against him again, and then fired the whole city, indifferent to their suffering and leaving them to shift for themselves as best they could. If he could not be loved then he would be feared. 

***** 

Pulling back to Ambrières, he ordered a feast to be prepared, and the next morning shared out the ransom monies amongst himself and his captains. They were jubilant, never had they had such easy and profitable work. They left him in high good humour. 

He tarried two weeks in Maine, stripping Geoffrey’s manor and securing the deceased Count Hubert’s treasury. He gave the captain of Ambrières his share of the ransom and additional funds to hold the border with Anjou where civil war raged. He also gave him a sum for the relief of the poor people of Maine, to be doled out in his duchess’s name and given through the church. 

He then crossed to Naboo for consultation with Désiré-Jean and found the man happy and content, glad to be in his own country and once more in the service of _the countess_. 

He cast a knowledgeable eye over the accounts, and he broached the subject of a joint treasury with Maine. 

Désiré-Jean was a born administrator and relished the challenge to set up an administrative department to govern both counties – in consultation with Ambrières, La Roche-Mabile and Rouen. 

They sketched out a hierarchy and drew up a recovery plan for rebuilding Le Mans, to be implemented immediately. He deposited some of Count Hubert’s treasury for that purpose. 

He needed only to spend some time with Montgomeri at La Roche-Mabile and then he could return home. 

It was the early days of March now, and he was sick for the sight of his wife, sustained only by regular receipt of her letters, now wrapped in linen and worn against his heart. She wrote with the most appalling hand, chicken scratches, really, but the sentiments she so lovingly expressed were everything he could have hoped for. 

He bade Montgomeri and Désiré-Jean adieu and turned Silencer’s head for home, his border with Maine was now secure.


	24. Chapter 24

Coming back to Rouen was the best thing now. Swinging out of the saddle to catch the lithe body of his wife and breathe in the scent of her as she cannoned into him, eager to be once more in his arms and pressed to his breast. With his wife, his mother and sons, and the people whom he knew he was dear to, Rouen felt like home and not just his capital and a place he must defend. 

All was well, and when he’d greeted Mitaka and handed over the spoils of war to be counted and stored, he greeted his mother and his household, his wife still clasped to his side, frowning a little that Anakin was only half a head taller than Edward yet a year older. He would make inquiry over this. Benjamin was adorable, to his eyes, the image of Rey. 

Then he could bathe and put on clean clothes, and sit for an hour with Mitaka to catch up with news and how things stood in Rouen, afterwards going into supper. His cook had prepared many of his favourite dishes, clearly granting forgiveness for his previous depredation of her larder, and he made a good meal. He’d lost all his accumulated body fat stalking and fighting the wolf, the musculature of his upper body well defined through use of the lance in close combat with an opponent as fierce as he. 

He cast his eye over the beloved faces at table. This is why I do the things I do, he thought, to defend this spear won land entrusted to me by my grandmother. If it were not for me, who would stand between them and the bitter winds of dynastic struggle? 

His grandfather had always advised him to guard his heart. Love was a treacherous, dangerous thing he had advised. No, no it wasn’t, he could see that now, for there was a difference between real love and the false sentimental sort which was sung of by the troubadours – those such as his absent father. 

His grandfather’s error had not been to love too much, but rather to allow fear to replace love. ‘Perfect love casts out fear’ was a teaching he remembered from early religious instruction. He hadn’t understood that previously, but now acknowledged its truth. If you kept faith, love didn’t weaken a man, rather it strengthened him. 

He reached for his wife’s hand, pressing a kiss to her fingers. She looked at him with shyness in her eyes and her lips curved in a soft, sweet smile. He kissed her fingers once more but did not let go. The gentle pressure of her hand didn’t alter throughout the rest of the meal, and he rose from table still clasping it. 

He sat with them a while in the Great Chamber, making inquiry as to how they all were faring, asking Clémence how she was enjoying her lessons and if her little mare, whom she’d named Durandel, was as obedient as she was pretty. 

Yes, she replied, her lessons were going very well and Durandel was everything that was wonderful and more. She said this with a conscious look, very aware of her previous churlishness toward him and his (undeserved) open-handed kindness toward her. 

Benjamin stirred in his arms, making faces and stretching himself, his hands forming fists which he drew to his mouth, sucking at them. It was time to feed him and Rey rose gracefully to take him from his arms. 

He took this opportunity to wish them goodnight and headed for his bachelor quarters. As he left, he heard Benjamin’s needy wail, Rey being slow to unlace the front of her gown and chemise having paused to watch her husband leave their room, a puzzled frown upon her face and a puzzled look in her eyes. 

He changed tack and made for the kennels to check on his hounds. They had stayed with him in the field and, like him, were lean and tired, at the tipping point between maintaining wiry strength and loss of condition. 

It was significant, he thought, that only the stay-at-home Talbots gave tongue as he entered. The Alaunts and his wolfhounds were stretched out, with only a wearily raised head and weakly thumping tail to acknowledge his presence, soon sinking back down into the deep bed of straw and embracing sleep. 

The hounds had all worn spiked collars as they’d hunted the wolf, so such wounds as they had were superficial and easily treated after each conflict. 

He himself, and indeed all his men, had worn hauberk and coif and drawn on the mailed war mittens as protection against the desperate fangs of their opponent. Ordinarily, he would have acknowledged affinity with them, but they had threatened with extinction that which was his, and that was not allowed. 

He passed from the kennels to the stables. He had used both Silencer and Tie interchangeably in the two months he had been away. They were in good heart his head groom informed him, and needed only to rest and to be turned out daily. He nodded, grateful they had taken no hurt. However, he must think ahead and ordered him to look out for another destrier to add to his string. 

While he was there he asked for a look at Durandel, whom he found dozing in her stall one back foot resting on the toe of her shoe. She was a pretty little thing, good natured too his groom told him. _La petite_ was overjoyed to have her and was learning from him how best to care for her. 

Did Clémence lack anything, he asked? His groom frowned a little. It was a pity, he opined, that girl’s did not wear spurs, for _la petite_ may not always ride one such as Durandel and it was wise to know the proper use of spur and whip to get oneself out of trouble, or show mastery where it was needed. _La petite_ had the makings of a fine horsewoman, and he would have her know all the arts of horsemanship. His duke just nodded, bidding him good night and walking thoughtfully back to his quarters. 

He undressed and sat in his robe sipping a glass of wine, his sheathed sword clasped crossways against his breast. It was going to be very hard to keep himself from his wife. 

Of course, one solution was to take a concubine, as was customary. To this he had two objections; firstly, the thought of being in the arms of any woman other than his wife was abhorrent to him. Secondly, he wanted no rival to his sons by Rey for the lands he held and the lands he would hold. 

He sipped his wine, gazing sightlessly into the flickering flames of the small fire in the hearth. 

His reverie was broken by the sound of quick steps and voices. He put down his wine and pulled his sword halfway from its sheath. The leather curtain was drawn back and his wife entered, Benjamin in her arms, quickly followed by a squire carrying his crib and Jessica carrying such things as may be needed throughout the night. 

“Sweetheart,” he exclaimed. 

His wife shot him a quick, glowing smile and thrust Benjamin at him. He paused to prop his sword against his chair and then took his youngest son in his arms, conscious of desire for his wife stirring in his loins and knowing he was lost to whatever she intended. 

She was directing the placement of the crib and the other things, bustling about with a marked lack of self consciousness, it being obvious why she’d sought him out – or so he supposed. Finally, all was as she wished and she dismissed the squire with a kind word and Jessica with a warm embrace and kiss. 

He noted the mutual warmth of the parting and realised he’d have to tread carefully with his plan to get shot of her third and final french maid. 

They were alone, and she turned toward him with a very disturbing expression on her face. He swallowed convulsively, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, he was Kylo Ren, he reminded himself, and therefore feared no man. 

She was standing before him now, leaning down to look him in the eye, cupping his upturned face in her hands and pressing a soft kiss to his lips. 

“I have come to you,” she murmured, stating the obvious, and began to rub his ears. 

He tried to be strong, really he did, but instead of repudiating her he turned his head and placed a kiss on her wrist. She hummed her approval, her hands sliding into his hair, her lips descending on his, moving softly against them but with little flicks of her tongue. He opened to her. 

She drew back from ravaging his mouth with lips, teeth and tongue, looking majorly pleased with herself, and took Benjamin from him, settling their sleeping son in his crib. 

She came back to him after settling Benjamin down, parting her robe to show one long golden leg and sitting on his knee, resting his left hand on her exposed thigh and beginning to nibble on his bottom lip, which felt swollen. 

“Dearest,” he began weakly, aware of a growing problem underneath her and pulling his mouth away from her, “dearest, I think we should not indulge in carnal relations.” 

“Do you, indeed,” she murmured, releasing his ear lobe which she had begun nibbling instead, “and why is that?” 

“Well, you struggled with carrying Benjamin, and I thought... “ 

He ceased speaking and whimpered – she was blowing soft breaths against his neck. 

He tried craning away from her, but she just began kissing the now exposed column of his throat, running her teeth along it. He shuddered, giving up trying to hide his burgeoning erection. She wriggled against it and it was as if a flame shot up his spine. 

He was weak. He acknowledged as much. _He_ kissed _her_. 

“See,” she murmured, as they came up for air, “it’s so much better when you co-operate.” 

He made a last ditch attempt at rationality before succumbing to his (very) base desires. 

“Sweetheart, I still think we should wait a little while longer.” 

Her face was very close to his, their foreheads touching. 

“Come to bed.” 

She slipped off his knee, casting her robe to one side as she walked to his narrow cot. 

She was still carrying a little of the baby weight, but the sight of her back and buttocks was as mesmerising as the day he’d first seen them spread-eagled over his knees – and with the same effect. 

He cast aside his own robe and crossed to her. She had turned and awaited him, her eyes drawn to his erection. 

Her breasts were fuller now, with blue veins very visible, he knew to be careful when he touched them. She melted into him as he reached her, placing his erection against her still softly swollen stomach, pressing it against her with a firm hand. 

He surrendered to her. He was a barque adrift in a stormy sea, she his anchor and lodestar. No matter what, she would bring him safe to harbour. Always it would be thus. 

So he didn’t question when she lay beside him, enfolded in one of his arms, placing two of his fingers inside her and encouraging him to move them in a manner which gave her pleasure. He didn’t question from where she’d gained the knowledge to move his thumb over a little nub she had there, to press on it or swirl his digit over it, according to her command. 

Afterwards, he stared stupidly at his two fingers, now wet with her essence after her back had arched and she’d cried out his name, wondering how best to clean them. As her eyes fluttered open, still darkened with her desire, he put them in his mouth to lick them clean. He saw her eyes widen and then she was pulling them from his mouth and into hers, suckling them as Benjamin did her breasts. 

Wordlessly, she pushed him onto his back and pleasured him with her mouth kissing him after, the taste of each other mingling on their lips. 

Only as they lay together on the verge of sleep, her back pressed into his chest, did he bethink himself to raise his head and murmur in her ear, “Wife, how came you by all this knowledge?” 

She yawned sleepily, inching further into him, if that were possible. 

“Maman,” she murmured. “She said Papa was a wonderful lover.” 

He closed his eyes and buried his face in her hair, enquiring no more.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oubliette - french for forgotten. Basically a dark pit where a prisoner was cast and forgotten. It needed outside agency to help a person escape.

Easter soon came upon them, a time for public show wearing their crowns and giving gifts. This time he was not caught abed, as he was sleeping once more with his wife. He was keeping his vow so as to spare her another childbed, but was unhappily aware he was receiving a Han Solo master class in lovemaking by proxy. 

He gave his mother a _hint_ that she could spare his wife any further recounting of her past conjugal history, but received no answer as she instead bent her head over her needlework. However, he’d caught the gleam in her eyes as she lowered them – he knew what that gleam betokened. 

He stared down at her for a moment and reviewed the possible conversations he might have with her. In every scenario she bested him, so he murmured a courteous ‘Maman’ and left her presence with as much dignity as he could muster in present circumstance. 

Just before Easter the usual promise came from Edward, sealed and brought by a trusted priest. However, there was also a verbal message delivered; Edward’s health was failing, the bad winter had drained him, he didn’t think he would last the year. 

This was a blow, he could not deny it. Unable to fight on two fronts, he could not currently campaign to win the English throne leaving his wife and sons exposed and in danger. No, he would rather give it up than lose them. 

His determination to give it up was sincere, but caused him to become thoughtful and withdrawn, for it was a long held dream of his, (since eleven years of age), and his customary sense of purpose was replaced by a sense of loss, for the first time he felt adrift. 

Nevertheless, he began to calculate the price he would ask to stand aside, thinking himself discreet in hiding his disappointment. 

One had noticed though, that he carried a troubled heart within him, and sought him out, slipping a small hand into his massive paw and looking up into his eyes with wide, worried hazel ones, asking tentatively, “What ails you love?” 

With any other he would have been dismissive, citing other cares for his distraction from everyday affairs, but she who asked was the one whom he loved above all else. Therefore, he took her to a quiet corner and confided in her. 

She knew, of course, of his ambition, of his birthright, but he had not troubled to tell her of what he must face in order to achieve his goal. No, he would keep from her knowledge of the necessity of the slaughter that would follow the instant he stepped on English soil. 

He spoke instead of how he must give up any pretensions to the kingship, and that he must make the best of it, still threatening to come unless a ransom was paid to him not to. 

“It’s just that it’s a long held dream of mine,” he ended, “and I need time to adjust to a new way of thinking.” 

His voice trailed off, his disappointment palpable. 

Two small hands were now wrapped around his one, they squeezed his hand tightly. 

“Love, no-one with accuracy can predict the future. Let us have _hope_ and take each day as it comes.” 

He kissed her then, comforted by her presence as much as by her sympathetic words. She followed through, though, in signalling her belief in him and the rightness of his claim. 

Her Easter gift to him, announced publicly, was the laying of a keel for a flagship, to be completed before the ending of the year and named _Mara_. 

In front of honoured guests, in front of all who mattered in Rouen, he rose up from his place at the feast and seized her in an all encompassing hug, pressing his lips to hers and then burying his face in her neck, overcome with emotion at her self-professed belief in his destiny. 

She hadn’t done. When he released her she turned once more to the assembled company and spoke again, her voice clear and heard throughout the hall, she, who shrank from public notice, content to walk in his shadow. 

“If any desire my lord’s love, and mine, then let them think on my gift to him today.” 

Rouen was abuzz for days, for if my lord succeeded in what had been forbidden by his grandmother, then there was untold wealth to be shared, for surely he would not forget those who had shown their love for him. Why, the duchess herself had said it. 

Think on it! Twenty one thousand pounds Harthacnut had taken from the English treasury each year for two years, and would have taken more had the Huxes not murdered him. Such sums would have broken Normandy. For only one year of the tax that Harthacnut had levied was all the money in the world to them, but, no, the English economy had afterwards been as strong as ever. 

By the end of the year the duke had a personal fleet of over two hundred ships, maintained by his loving subjects. 

He took his wife to bed that night and his lovemaking was all Ben Solo, as he put his soft lips and tongue to her sweetness until she writhed and begged for the satisfaction only he could give. As he entered her, she wrapped her legs higher around him and tilted her hips so that he could drive in deeper. 

She curled up afterwards like a contented kitten, his arms and body wrapped around her. They awoke to tend to Benjamin and then she must have him once more, urging him on until her cries of pleasure woke those nearby. 

They attended Easter Day Mass with pillow soft faces, their voices husky and low when giving the responses. 

Her hair was once more on display, as she was wearing her crown, and men carefully lowered their eyes after looking upon the erotic softness of her face. To be found gazing upon her in lust would mean instant death, even in this holy place. 

The Easter celebration had not long gone when news arrived from Brittany. 

Unsettled by his humiliation the year before at the hands of Kylo Ren, and inspired by his friend Fulk of Anjou rising up against his brother, young Conrad, count of Brittany, was preparing to go to war against the duke of Normandy. Egged on by the bellicose young men around him, he convinced his uncle he was serious in his intent. 

Uncle Odo, his guardian practically since birth, remonstrated with him and was rewarded by being put in chains and cast into the oubliette of Rennes fortress. 

Conrad was displaying all the rash impulsiveness that had gotten his grandfather and father killed – Anakin having put his father down. 

The young man then returned to his preparations for war, his uncle forgotten, except his uncle had power which extended beyond the dark place into which he had been cast. 

Conrad declared a feast day, intending to persuade more men to his banner. Of course there was eating and drinking – drinking to a point where caution was forgot and high spirits dominated. 

Someone, it was never established who, just an insistent voice in the crowd, called for a drinking contest. It just so happened that an antique drinking horn was produced, of the sort beloved by Norsemen in their drinking contests. And look! Here was a barrel of strong, dark beer. What could be more fortuitous! 

Conrad watched, bleary eyed, as his companions downed horn after horn of beer to a loud count from the inebriated crowd, with various degrees of success. 

Fired with the spirit of emulation, Conrad lurched forward and demanded his turn. Someone, it was never remembered just who afterwards, handed the young man the horn, brimful with frothy strong dark beer. 

He raised the horn to his lips and someone started a handclap and countdown. Conrad would undoubtedly have been declared winner, but as he lowered the vessel from his lips and went to wipe them with the back of his hand, he dropped to the ground dead. 

At first, it was thought he was fallen in a drunken stupor, time enough for someone, it was never established who, to go release the dead youth’s uncle. 

Odo strode into the Great Hall accompanied by his bodyguard, men sworn only to him, and had dragged to the fortress walls those young men whose ruinous counsel had had him incarcerated, and had them hanged from them. 

Aside from him, there was only one heir to the county left of his line, a niece, Hawise, seventeen years of age and now dependent on her uncle’s favour for her existence. 

In spite of his actions, Odo was opposite in nature to his forbearers, a cautious man, only too mindful of the nature of the dukes of Normandy, his overlords, and this duke in particular. He penned a letter to him, giving his version of events and asking him to come and restore order to the county. 

The duke’s eyes gleamed when he got the news, both in appreciation for Odo’s manipulation of events and because he saw an opportunity. He despatched a task force immediately, though he had no doubt Odo’s niece would be kept safe by him. He delayed his own departure for Brittany, having decided to take Rey and Benjamin with him. 

His mother had been too long away from La Seigneurie, neglectful of her affairs there in order to put herself at his disposal. He took advantage of being called away to release her from her sense of obligation to him. She would take charge of Anakin and Edward, Lando providing security for her and his sons. 

She took possession of the biddies, also. They were too old now to go careering around Normandy. Jessica and Clémence would accompany them as companions to his wife. 

The month of May was not far off when they finally got underway, new life coming into bud all around them and the cleansed air lending itself to optimism after such a hard winter. 

His wife looked glorious on horseback. The folds of her crimson gown cascaded around her legs, the hem stopping just short to show off her red leather ankle boots and giving a little glimpse of her stockings, and the emerald encrusted silver spur he had given her as one of her Easter gifts, which she wore on her left boot. 

Ladies must ride astride and, in order to preserve modesty, must pass their right leg discreetly over their horse’s withers after having been put in the saddle. To do otherwise would be to afford any man present _a glimpse of paradise_. 

Therefore, after much thought, he had had a single spur made for her and Clémence – to be worn on the left boot. Clémence’s spur was plain silver, his wife’s bejewelled. 

The logistics of the journey were complicated a little by Benjamin’s need to suckle at his mother’s breast, his weaning being a little while off yet. Nevertheless, it was accomplished, his wife sitting in the back of one of the wagons surrounded by female servants, Jessica pressing close. 

Conversely, Benjamin being so young aided their progress, he could not imagine Anakin and Edward being so content to journey mile after wary mile in a covered wagon. 

As they progressed, it was often possible for his wife to find comfort in the well kept cottage of a Franklin while Benjamin fed. Wherever discreet, open-handed hospitality was extended to her, he would reward with a shower of silver coin. By the end of the journey, somehow word had got ahead of them of his largesse and competition was fierce to accommodate _Madame la duchesse_. 

He had no qualms about showing his wife and son off in any of the large towns and cities they stopped off at. Indeed, he swelled with pride to see her made much of and her beauty (and fecundity) admired. He noticed many of the richest citizen’s wives, and all of the noble ones, now carried with them little lapdogs dressed in coats to match their gowns. Clearly, his wife was foremost lady in the land, looked to and imitated. 

No, no qualms at all about showing her off, except in one city – Bayeux. 

He wrestled with himself before taking her there. He needed Odo of Bayeux’s support in his invasion of England. Well, more accurately, the support of Odo’s family. It would be seen as a calculated insult to bypass the bishop’s city. 

However, if Odo cast envious eyes on his little wife... he ground his teeth and gripped the hilt of his sword. Pragmatism won the day, and they crossed the Dives after visiting Caen and headed for Bayeux. 

It was as he had thought, the bishop, now in his early twenties and one of the greatest fornicators in the duchy, was enchanted by his wife - lustfully enchanted. 

A predatory gleam lit up his eyes at the sight of her, and he spent too long clasping her hand after reverently kissing _each finger_ , making her laugh delightedly and not snatch it away _as she should_. 

As soon as he could, he pinned his little wife to his side and kept her there. 

He had made a tactical error too. The night before, he had lectured her most severely about her conduct. She, who had her way in everything, was now instructed by him that her hair was to be completely covered the whole while they visited Bayeux. Not a curl, _not a strand_ , must be visible when in public, and by public he meant in the sight of anyone but him. 

She must be careful how high she lifted the hem of her gown if she needed to negotiate a step, or keep her spur from catching in her gown, or some-such thing. Indeed, it was best if he carried her. He wanted no show of her ankles or any part of her leg when in public, and by public he meant in the sight of anyone but him. 

He warmed to his theme, not realising how intimidating he seemed to her, taking her wide eyed silence to mean studious committal of his diktat. 

Therefore, in contrast, she found Odo with his light-hearted courtesies and flirtatious ways appealing. His nicely timed, seemingly sincere compliments were exhilarating to the spirits and novel in their utterance, so novel she misunderstood their purpose which was to captivate and seduce. 

For you see, her husband, her open-handed, endlessly indulgent husband, had never wooed her, too shy and self-conscious to compete in the lists of courtly love. 

As a consequence, her needy, passionate husband felt lumpish and uncouth, _unwanted_ (and therefore made dangerous). As a consequence, his frown grew deeper and blacker, a perfect foil for his rich but plain black attire. 

The tipping point came the second full day of the visit, at Mass, Odo the officiant. 

Ben, unlike his wife, would not be taking communion, for there was now not a place on Earth, or in Heaven or Hell, where he would kneel before Odo of Bayeux. 

His little wife had made confession though, and approached now to take the emblems while he stood off to the side his jealous gaze riveted on her, watching every interaction between her and the lecherous bishop. 

He was now well served, he thought savagely, in his spite against Lor San Tekka. 

His wife was kneeling before the bishop, on a footstool placed there for her comfort. He ground his teeth at her posture as a supplicant, so evocative of the times she had knelt before him, glad to do him service. 

She opened her mouth to have the wafer placed on her tongue. Odo then put two fingers under her chin and playfully closed her mouth, drawing them slowly away in a clear caress. Ben felt his rage ignite. 

Now he was handing her the cup, placing his own hands over hers as she sipped the communion wine, drawing the cup away and giving it to a priest while putting a hand out, placing it on her head to keep her in place, as though he had some other use for her mouth. 

Sexual jealousy and rage rippled through Ben, in the manner of a breeze sweeping over a field of barley. It possessed him from his nerve endings to the very marrow in his bones, and then the darkness came. 

He heard a familiar sound, but was too sunk in darkness to recognise it, striding toward Odo of Bayeux with one imperative – kill. 

Odo was quickly made aware of the peril he was in. The liberties he’d taken with his lord’s wife were meant to be provocative, all done with sly calculation, believing he held the whip hand over Kylo Ren, believing he was indispensible. 

As he put his hand on Rey’s head, he had turned his own toward the duke, expecting to see him once more simmering with silent, impotent resentment at this latest trespass of his property and prepared to be amused by it. 

Had he educated himself with regard to scripture, rather than just enough church ritual to get by, he would have received prior warning of what was about to happen. 

‘For jealousy enrages a husband’, intoned the proverb, ‘and he will show no mercy in the day of vengeance’. 

An avenging angel was certainly advancing on him and it wore the face of Kylo Ren, a bright blade in his hand glittering evilly in the candlelit cathedral. 

He pushed the priest beside him into the path of his executioner and made hotfoot for the sacristy door, casting aside his mitre and rucking up his albe in order to move quicker. 

He barely made it. The hapless priest pushed in the path of the murderous duke delayed him not one second. Odo had just got the bar in place on the sacristy door when purposeful thuds sounded from the other side. 

Now sobbing with fright, he ran to a small door set in the outer wall of the cathedral and tumbled out into the back street. He ran hard until he came upon an unattended horse and leapt onto its back, ignoring the cries of protest, pushing it into a gallop thence out of the city gates and onto the road to Caen and sanctuary.


	26. Chapter 26

He stayed two weeks in Bayeux, dismantling Odo’s power base. 

Men came forward, now the bishop was disgraced, and spoke of the hubris of bishop Odo, how, according to his boasts, Kylo Ren owed his very dukedom to him. 

True, Ben had leaned heavily on the bishop, though not to the degree claimed. Lando and Chewie, for instance, had done as much and more without demur. No, his bishop of Bayeux was overly ambitious and unmindful from whence his favour had come. 

Very well, he had raised him up, now he must break him, and when the time came he would take him with him to the field of blood whence he could not flatter and deceive his little duchess in his absence, and potentially gain control of his precious sons. 

He could not, would not, sell church lands, but he could lease them out in exchange for a peppercorn rent, reducing revenue to the bishopric catastrophically, and so he did, bestowing them on the fiercest of the local counts. Let Odo try to overturn the accord he’d made with the likes of Ackbar and Raddus if he dare! 

He put seal to it all, adding also his wife’s seal to the charters. Odo would have no doubt, therefore, should he demur at what was decided, that he would face hard men who had the backing of their duke. 

He then took inventory of the cathedral treasury. That which was the church’s he left unmolested, the rest he took as his own. With this revenue he enriched the minor nobility, who had not enough affinity to grant land to and hold it, thus keeping them sweet and hopeful of him. 

He made provision for the relief of the poor of Bayeux through the auspices of a nearby abbey whose abbot was a former pupil of the fanatic bishop of Falaise and therefore an enemy of Odo, who was glad to be given the whip hand over him. 

He made the endowment in his wife’s name, for he would have her name beloved throughout Normandy, as beloved as it was to him – if that were possible. 

He knew he had Odo in a death grip when his two older half brothers arrived in Bayeux, not to plead for clemency for their half brother, but to see what could be gained from his fall. 

Count Robert’s health was failing too, the harsh winter having significantly weakened his health. Odo had always been his favourite, sired on a young concubine, a tanner’s daughter, who had ever been favoured over their mother who was nobly born. The brothers feared he would leave all to Odo, only their mother’s portion coming to them. 

He listened to their petitions, granting some of what they asked after they had first publicly sworn liege homage to him. They left, somewhat satisfied and eager to do more in order to gain the rest. 

As well as punishment to be doled out, there was also a propaganda war to be waged – in this Odo had helped him immeasurably. 

The tale of the bishop hurtling down the street, his vestments raised like a woman’s skirts the better to run faster, had swept through Bayeux and lost nothing in the telling. 

The account of the bishop’s terrified face, red and sweating with exertion, his breaths coming as sobs from his throat, and the three abortive attempts to scramble onto the back of the stolen horse, had been recounted and sniggered over times without number and would be for quite a while. 

Of course, people wished to know the catalyst for his precipitous flight, and here the testimony of those witnesses in the cathedral of Kylo Ren’s truly terrifying expression of rage was heard of by all with breathless awe. 

In the end, Bayeux was torn between those who wished they’d attended Mass that morning, and those who wished they’d been conducting business in the street Odo had run down. The favour was with attending Mass, for it was known the duke was dotingly fond of his wife and the only times he’d been known to smile is when in her company. 

As to cause, well, it’s best not to speak of that. Of course the duchess was blameless; the entire fault was to be found with that cur Odo, surely. All Bayeux agreed on that. If there was speculation, it was spoken in low tones before each man’s hearth. 

‘She whom we love and dearly cherish’, the duke had had put in every charter where his wife was mentioned. It was good to mark that, and men did mark it. Should the duke hear aught _breathed_ against his wife’s virtue, well, that man, (or those men), would not live long. The best a man could hope for from the duke then would be a quick death. 

Ben listened to his agents reports and was satisfied that no scandal was attached to his wife’s name. He regretted nothing over what he’d done except that one thing, drawing his wife into his toils. Truly, he could not bear it if men thought _she_ had given him cause for jealousy. 

He had soon given up trying to break through the sacristy door, a piece of solid wood he’d found, sheathing his sword and turning to see his wife staring at him aghast, her face ashen. Indeed, all the women of his household attending Mass with them looked to be in shock, Clémence’s lip trembling as though about to burst into tears. 

He’d put on his best soothing voice, as though to reassure Roland or Maud as he anointed their hurts, or encourage Silencer or Tie over some obstacle they pecked at. 

“Come, love, come, sweetheart,” he’d crooned, “let us away from here.” 

His wife had looked at his outstretched hand as though not comprehending his meaning. He tried again. 

“Come, beloved, come take my hand.” 

Slowly, she tentatively raised her own hand and then paused, looking into his eyes. 

“Ben?” she asked, uncertainly, her voice quavering a little. 

“Your very own, sweetheart,” he reassured her, inwardly cursing that he had caused upset to her who was his everything, more than his everything, through his brutish ways. 

“Ben,” she said again, with more certainty, warmth creeping back into her voice as she uttered his name. She stepped forward and he wrapped his hand around hers, relief flooding through him that he had not lost her. 

“Come, love,” he gentled her, “let us leave this place.” 

He gathered up his womenfolk and shepherded them back to their quarters, his wife now clasped to his side, where she leaned into him, her steps stumbling a little. 

“Was the fault with me?” she asked as he went to leave her. Her face still pale from shock, her eyes filled with worry. 

“No, no, love,” he hastened to reassure her, “I will explain it later, but never was the fault with you.” 

“You are too fond, perhaps,” she replied, “and will not tell me of my error to spare me.” 

“No, sweetheart, no, when did I ever hold back from chiding you when you needed it?” 

“Only ever for my comfort,” she replied, “so that I took no hurt.” 

The tears came then, falling thick and fast, and he picked her up, lying with her on the bed, his arms wrapped around her, as she sobbed out all her griefs onto his chest. 

Never again, he vowed, when at last he could leave her, would he expose her to his brutish ways. Only in the direst of circumstances would he let the darkness take him. 

As a consequence of his delay, Odo got away, but his otherness now spoke to him, informing him how best to hurt his libidinous, traitorous bishop and cause no further hurt to his wife. 

All that remained was for Odo to approach Kylo Ren, before he swung himself into the saddle and headed for Brittany, to beg forgiveness for his many and manifest faults. 

He was dressed as a penitent and knelt before his duke, putting out his hand for his master to crush if he chose. Kylo Ren did indeed choose to tread on that treacherous hand, publicly admonishing his bishop for his many failings. 

Mounting Tie, Kylo Ren delivered a menacing valediction, “Fail me again, bishop, and my boot will be at your neck.” 

Spurs touched Tie’s flanks and he clattered out of the courtyard, bodyguard, squires and grooms streaming after. 

Odo clutched his throbbing right hand to his chest and trudged into his palace to see what, if anything, could be saved.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Placet Domina? = It pleases (you) Lady?
> 
> Placet = It pleases.

The month of May was well advanced when they resumed their journey, June being just on the horizon. 

They were now passing through land that had been fired by Henry and Martel, and he was eager to look for signs of recovery. The earth was showing green shoots in abundance and unmistakable signs of cultivation. 

An abundance of bright new thatch indicated the return of bondsman and Franklin from their hiding places and the rebuilding of hamlet, village and town. 

He also lent his ear toward any stories of exploitation over the cost of grain – there were very few reported. 

Those that there were were soon settled by him paying the greedy merchant involved a visit. One of Ben’s massive hands would grip the reprobate’s well-fed shoulder as though in friendship, fingers digging painfully into soft flesh until the required degree of repentance were professed. Repentance was quickly followed by reparation, which was invariably made on the spot. After all, his goodwill was not given to be abused. 

The change of scenery was doing his wife good too. She had been noticeably subdued since _the incident_ , and he was starting to worry that an invisible barrier was being erected between them based on (he so hoped not) fear of him. 

Gradually, though, the farther they got from Bayeux, her trusting, confiding ways in him were restored. He was once more the recipient of her joyful smile at the sight of him, along with the welcoming stretching out of her hands in greeting and her ardent desire to receive his kiss. 

They reached Rennes and were immediately ushered into the presence of Odo and his niece, Hawise. 

Odo was found to be a short man with dark, almost black, eyes and grizzled black hair which was showing silver at the temples. In manner he was found to be quiet, speaking with economy of words but shrewd in his observations. He was not afraid of Kylo Ren, but instead had a healthy respect for him – which proved to be refreshing to the duke. 

The little maid, however, was a different matter. She stood in terror, twisting her hands nervously and biting at her bottom lip. Browbeaten and bullied by her strong-willed, stubborn brother (and in all likelihood in the future by her uncle), the very reputation of Kylo Ren had rendered her mind anguished and her complexion unnaturally pale. The sight of the duke, dressed all in black and striding purposefully toward her, threatened to send her into a swoon. What might he ask of her? How could she withstand him? 

Such was her agitation she quite missed the slim figure walking beside him, whose hand was clasped in the Iron Duke’s, until something was pushed into her hands. 

Automatically grasping the object, she looked down to see a tiny lapdog dressed in a scarlet coat with the twin lions of Normandy embroidered on it. The tiny creature was making overtures of friendship, whimpering and wriggling in her arms, trying to lick her chin. 

“His name is Purkoy,” a sweet voice informed her, as she adjusted the dog to press her face against the loving, vital creature, which smelt of orris root. 

She looked up into hazel eyes, warm in their expression. A girl, no, a woman, whose skin was touched by the sun and whose pretty pink lips were curved into a dazzling smile showing white teeth stood before her. In spite of her shyness, Hawise smiled back. The woman laughed as Purkoy yipped his displeasure at being ignored, and Hawise instinctively began to pet him, causing him to snuffle and lick at her caressing hand. 

She heard the woman’s voice say something and heard an answering rumble. Looking up from kissing the top of Purkoy’s head she met the gaze of eyes the colour of horse chestnut honey – dark, rich amber. The Iron Duke! Except now he didn’t seem to be made of iron, rather of a softer substance, looking on at Purkoy’s antics with indulgence, an arm now curled around the pretty woman’s waist. 

Her uncle’s voice broke through, speaking sharply, reminding her to give her courtesy to the duke and duchess. At once she was thrown into confusion, her limbs not obeying her, staggering a little as she tried to bend her knees to curtsy and at the same time stutter out her welcome. 

The woman with the sun-kissed skin reached out and caught her by the shoulders, moving in to wrap her arms around her and kiss each cheek. Her scent too was of orris root, floral and powdery, reminiscent of violets – comforting. 

“Dearest Hawise,” she murmured, and the touch starved girl wanted to cry at her kindness. 

To her horror, the duke was now stepping toward her as his duchess gave way to him. There was no time to get away, only give a little squeak as his arms wound around her, mindful not to crush Purkoy, and soft lips placed a kiss on either cheek, where before she was overly pale, now her cheeks burned scarlet. The duke’s scent was soft, warm, smooth, the scent of sandalwood she was later to learn. 

The duke would stay with her uncle and she must lead the duchess to her quarters, Odo urged, frowning at her a little, irritated by her clumsy, gauche ways. The duchess turned a smiling countenance toward Hawise, but a spark of anger was evident in her eyes. Hawise took fright, believing she had caused offence through not showing proper graciousness and hospitality. Her face was now lobster red as she stuttered out her apology, tears threatening to overflow from her eyes. 

“Hush, Hawise,” the duchess spoke softly, a comforting arm encircling her shoulders, placing a soft kiss on her hair, “you have given no offence, and we have taken no hurt.” 

Hawise looked through her tears toward her uncle, the duke standing beside him. Her uncle’s expression was still one of irritation, the duke’s of thoughtful contemplation. 

In the end, it was the duchess who arranged it all, sitting Hawise on her bed and giving her candied almonds to munch on while servants bustled about arranging luggage and setting all to rights. A child was brought in, about five months old, looking about him with wonder and a little concern. 

“My Benjamin,” the duchess cooed fondly, showing him off to Hawise, “the image of his father.” 

Hawise, looking upon the boy, rather thought he looked like his mother, but nodded politely anyway. She was astounded when the duchess sat herself down in a comfortable chair and unlaced her dress and chemise, peeling back layers of cloth to expose a breast and putting her child to it. Looking up as her son latched on, Rey caught her look of amazement and laughed softly as she adjusted her baby to lie more comfortably. 

“Am I not the most fortunate of women,” she asked Hawise, “to have as lord one who grants me all my wishes?” 

Her wits returning to her in the tranquil atmosphere of the room, presided over by the self-possessed duchess, Hawise treated the question as rhetorical and merely nodded her head as she stuffed more of the sweet treats into her mouth. The duchess laughed softly and gazed fondly down at her son, humming a nameless tune. 

Later, when once more private with Ben, Rey broached the subject of Hawise, expressing her concern that the girl would be bullied, a puppet through whom Uncle Odo would rule. Ben agreed, giving his opinion that the girl needed a husband. 

“What say you, sweetheart, a fine young man, a youth to keep our young Hawise warm at night, offering her a sweet distraction and paying her artful compliments?” 

His tone was light, but he was watching her carefully, he had not quite recovered that she had found the youthful bishop of Bayeux just such a sweet distraction. He sought reassurance that he rather was her preferred lover. 

If she caught the undercurrent in his seemingly light-hearted observation of his residual jealousy and insecurity, she gave no sign. Her brows drew together as she answered him seriously, “No, my lord, I would not have it so.” 

His interest was piqued. 

“Well, my lady, I would know more. How would you have it?” 

She looked him in the eye then and spoke slowly, as though gathering her thoughts as she spoke. 

“I would have it the way it is with us. Ten years between, I think, is the ideal. For then there is yet the vigour and humour of a young man in the husband, tempered by the acquired wisdom and constancy of belief and purpose of the older.” 

Her words flowed now, she spoke confidently as her thoughts coalesced.

“From what I have seen this day, I would have Hawise loved as I am loved, not with pretty speeches which flatter and deceive, no, not with word, but in deeds, as daily your constant, fond love is expressed toward me.” 

He was by her side in an instant, catching her in a bone crushing embrace, his lips pressed hotly to hers. He broke the kiss to whisper her name, his voice thickened with emotion, before lowering his head once more and claiming what was his both by right and by what she had just averred. 

They stayed in Brittany what was left of May and the whole of June. During that time Ben exalted Hawise not to the degree of countess, but to that of duchess, as was his right as her overlord. 

Furthermore, he had her invested as duchess in her own right (suo jure). The duchy may now be passed through the female line – he declared he had a fondness for duchesses. (It was an arrangement which lasted for five hundred years, until Anne, the last duchess, became also Queen of France and Brittany was annexed). 

Therefore, Hawise walked toward him in Rennes cathedral barefoot and dressed only in a chemise, her hair unbound. Kneeling before him, she gave liege homage, expressed in a clear, strong voice – she now trusted this Norman duke to do right by her. 

Once the oath had been sworn, he raised her to her feet and dressed her in a velvet robe with his own hands, fastening a golden girdle around her waist and seating her in a carved chair placed on a high dais. 

Kneeling before her, he put embroidered slippers on her feet before standing back while the bishop of Rennes conducted the investiture, stepping forward again to jointly lower the newly made ducal crown upon her head. He then handed her the gold rod of justice, topped by a dove made of gold depicting peace. 

The bishop then handed her a gold orb topped by a gold cross with a ruby embedded as its heart, signifying her own subjection to Christ, the ruler of the entire world. 

Bishop and duke then stood back as Hawise received the acclimation of her people. 

There was a rustling of silk skirts beside him. His wife had joined him, slipping her hand in his. 

He leaned toward her, “Placet Domina?” 

She squeezed his fingers and answered, “Placet.” 

In the congregation was Alain, duke of Cornwall, a prospective bridegroom for Hawise – should he find favour with her. Like Hawise, he was of Celtic origin, his people pushed west as a consequence of the Anglo-Saxon invasion of England. He had the distinctive black hair and eyes of their shared ethnicity. He was also her elder by five years. 

It’s worth mentioning that early on in his visit Kylo Ren had hanged a certain Italian apothecary in the employ of Uncle Odo, personally supervising the destruction of his pills and potions. There were too many folks in Rennes with digestive ailments was his laconic observation. He hoped to be judged to have done a public service. 

They left Brittany the first week of July, headed for his wife’s county of Naboo where they intended to stay over the summer months. 

Hawise shed tears over their leaving, but was content with the ordering of her affairs, with Uncle Odo now subject to her and an overlord who would not hesitate to come to her aid. 

Their final gift to her was a lapdog.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> douceur de vivre = sweetness of life
> 
> salope = slut
> 
> embonpoint = cleavage

The weeks, months, spent in Naboo were heavenly. They would never spend such a time together again in all their marriage – or so long a time. To aim as high as Kylo Ren intended would come at a cost. 

They had paid a courtesy visit to the county of Maine. Here Ben had her meet with the bishop of Le Mans with Benjamin on her knee, without his polluting presence. The intent was to present a picture of benign all-encompassing motherhood, a balance to his monstrousness. 

It worked. The bishop proclaimed it on the high road and before the high altar that though the new Count of Maine may be a snarling, salivating beast, the new Countess, as evidenced by the rich bounty dripping daily from her fingers for the relief of their souls, had him leashed. 

The citizens of Maine listened and were comforted. 

The days were long and balmy, for in Naboo spring and summer came early and autumn and winter came late. Even the rain, when it came, fell gently and did not inconvenience them in the enjoyment of the _douceur de vivre_ they had awarded themselves. 

There were warning clouds, of course, but they passed unnoticed on the distant horizon. The consequence of Benjamin’s bonding with Clémence, for instance. 

His possessive jealousy of her manifested itself in tantrums when she was once more reunited with Anakin, who demanded her sole attention. Indications of future rivalry between the brothers embedded even at this young age. 

Comforted by his mother or Jessica, he gazed at her out of troubled eyes, tears dripping down his chubby cheeks, his jaw working as though disbelieving of her inconstancy. 

He had his mother’s sympathy, for when she had remarked to Hawise that Benjamin was made in the image of his father she was referring to his nature. The son who in looks was his entire mother had his father’s heart, and because of that he had all of Rey’s love that was not given first to his sire. 

In time, seeming to accept Clémence’s preference for his older brother, he reverted to his natural mien of a sunny natured child, flashing the wide, welcoming smile inherited from his mother which concealed knowledge of his possessive, secretive nature from all save Rey. 

However, his eyes followed Clémence constantly when she was in his presence, and those hours when she was his alone became amongst the most precious of his memories. 

This, however, was for future time, but the seeds of fraternal conflict were sown during that summer idyll in Naboo. 

The Nabooian sun shone on Normandy too, and Maine, and Brittany, and farther afield. It delivered a bountiful harvest and aged warriors bathing their joints in its rays, worn out through a lifetime spent in the saddle fighting Anakin Skywalker’s wars, turned shrewd eyes upon the tithe barns being filled with abundant quantities of grain – more than abundant quantities of grain. 

War, they recalled, often followed a harvest such as this, there being more than enough grain to sustain men and horses in the field indefinitely. Like hounds picking up a faint but fresh trail, they gave tongue to their thoughts, urging sons and grandsons to see to the repair and replacement of harness and to put a keen edge to their swords and lances. 

In Naboo, Rey strengthened her bonds with her people, began the weaning of her son, and drew her husband deeper into her enchantments. 

To Rey’s amusement, and her husband’s chagrin, here in Naboo _she_ was everything, addressed always as _Countess_. 

From a line as ancient as his grandmother’s, it was her blood that elevated her in their esteem not her marriage to the warrior Duke of Normandy, though they knew better than to provoke his wrath. 

Han Solo had not lied about life in the south. Blessed with a temperate climate, life there inclined people’s hearts to pleasurable pursuits in eating, drinking and lovemaking. 

Here a married lady could incline her ear to poems and songs extolling her beauty from a would-be lover. Have him whisper intoxicating words of love in her ear and, as long as she was discreet, take him as a lover with no harm done. 

The small court they kept there was without the formality of Rouen, where every action was analysed as to its true meaning. No, here all was spontaneity and gaiety, and she sang and danced and played for her dark lord. His eyes relaxed their hard stare even in company and instead the expressive eyes of Ben Solo gazed upon her, shining with love and want. 

Something awoke in his blood, that part of him which was Han Solo and which he vehemently denied possessing. He surprised everyone one evening by rising from his chair to dance with his wife. She had always danced with Jessica, the country dances of her homeland. 

He had memorised the steps and took his place beside her and much to everyone’s astonishment, proved himself a graceful dancer. He, whose unmistakable heavy tread was a precursor to his coming, was light on his feet in the dance. His massive frame swayed elegantly, his arms and hands expressing the nuances of the music. 

At the end of it, where another man would have whispered persuasively in her ear, he simply hoisted Rey up over his shoulder and took her to bed, the bright silk scarf she had wrapped around her hair like a gypsy woman sliding off, causing her hair to cascade downwards toward his heels. He left the room with her to the hollering of hunting cries. 

Han Solo’s blood could only do so much. 

There being no garden to the manor, every afternoon as the heat of August grew oppressive within the walls of the manor, they decamped to the orchard to lie dressed in linen chemises and loose linen robes in hammocks slung between apple trees. 

Benjamin lay naked in the arms of Clémence or Jessica, or suckled at the breast of his mother, the hammocks swaying gently as they all dozed the afternoon away to the drone of bees. 

They dined off bread dipped in olive oil and olives, drinking watered down wine, all set out beneath the shade of the grey twisted trees, now heavy with fruit. 

When Ben eventually joined them, for he must still govern his lands and keep an eye on the doings of the French and English kings, Rey lay on the ground with him on rugs piled high with cushions, for there was not an apple tree known to man that could bear the weight of Ben Solo in a hammock and not suffer injury. 

These times became foremost to them both in precious memory. With Benjamin lying on Ben’s chest and his wife tucked against his side, their hands clasped together to encompass their son, they could image themselves inhabiting an earthly paradise. 

For a while, for a little while, they were just man and wife and beloved child, before once more the world of men intruded and once more they must make themselves available to subject and servant, and trust in Ben’s wits and sword arm to keep them safe. 

There was a garden being constructed at Rouen for her while they were away, within the castle grounds. 

Her habit of walking Purkoy daily around the meadow had become public knowledge and people of all sorts had begun to waylay her, trying to push written petitions into her hands or calling out their grief’s as the guards pushed them back and drew their swords. 

She could not bear to see these people brutalised, for some of them were genuine in their needs, but also would not stop the guards from doing their duty as that would put them in the wrong with their master, who would undoubtedly punish them severely for not properly guarding his most precious treasure. 

She had helped the first who had waylaid her, a young woman clutching her newborn to her breast, clearly desperate and in great distress, whose married lover had cast her off. 

Of course, once word got out others came, first a trickle and then a flood. 

Of course, the captain of the guard must report it to Ben, she understood that and bore him no grudge, and her husband, grim faced, had ordered the road cleared before she walked out. 

She knew what this would entail and had chosen rather to forgo her daily exercise, weeping with frustration and disappointment, for that time had been precious to her, walking out with Purkoy pattering alongside her, exclaiming with her ladies over each new joy the spring brought before their eyes. Her innocent enjoyment of a simple pleasure snatched away it seemed. 

The man who had held the captaincy that week had later approached her, now sure of her sympathetic ear and made her his confidant, which, after she had heard him, she would rather he had not. 

The captain’s name was Robert, he who had had the safety of Arlette, made Lady Aubigny, entrusted him. He had stayed a long while with her, well into the next year, until word had come through that Mauger was dead and his spy network with it and he was recalled. 

Of course Arlette had seduced him. 

Of course she had borne him a child. 

As if that was not enough, he had also married her without permission and got her with child again. 

Rey heard all this with some resentment, for now Robert wished her to intercede with her lord in behalf of the _salope_ who had kissed Ben and whose breasts he had fondled. Breasts bigger than hers, she may add, even though hers now had an impressive _embonpoint_ (for her) through them being full of milk! 

Rey bit back some very unchristian comments as the man before her was clearly suffering. 

Then she must go to Ben and stand before him and explain the whole sorry affair, as he cast an unblinking stare at her which had her shivering in her soft leather slippers until she suddenly remembered it was not she who was in the wrong. 

Then she had shouted at him that it was not her fault if he chose to appoint as ladies prostitutes, and he was well served and she hoped Arlette gave him nothing but trouble her whole life long and he got an ulcer through it! 

Then she had burst into tears and run to find Leia and the biddies and tell tales on him. 

With his wife, mother and the biddies ranged against him, he had no choice but to grant clemency. 

In order to do this and not lose face before his men, his wife must then say in front of everyone that she had known of it and kept it from him. Then he must publicly rebuke her, for a Norman male must always be _seen_ to be master of his own house, but kept it brief as his wife had a _look_ about her and he could not rely on her self-control. 

Then Robert was summarily dismissed from his service and Lady Aubigny fined for her disobedience. 

As recompense, Leia had suggested Ben make Rey the gift of a garden, which he had agreed. A small plot was made over to her, on an embankment, part of the fortress’s defensive network. The whole would be cleared and seeded to make a sloping lawn and there would be a circular walk she could use throughout the year. 

Leia had designed it herself, and there would be shrubs and roses and greenery. It was under construction now, and she would see it Michaelmas when they were all reunited at Rouen. 

Meanwhile, she had languished within the donjon wondering at what pace the spring was advancing in her meadow and hedgerow. When the March wind blew from the east, or the temperature dipped so that the rain fell as hail, pattering against the glass like so many small stones cast against it, it wasn’t so bad to be confined indoors. 

She had longed, though, to gaze upon the wood anemones as they bloomed, and observe the blackthorn break out in blossom, to watch the charm of goldfinches scatter as they paired up to mate and hear the sweet song of the linnets, insignificant looking birds but with their breasts looking as though they had been dipped in raspberry conserve. 

Then word had come that Conrad had thrown his uncle into a deep pit to rot and would come make war on Ben. Then the news that his uncle had ordered his nephew’s death by poisoning, of this Ben was convinced and had hanged the culprit in order to keep them all safe. 

Now they were in her home county of Naboo, and life was wonderful.


	29. Chapter 29

As they travelled north toward Rouen and their family reunion, Rey was aware of the cooler temperature as they drew away from Naboo, and her heart did a funny thing. A sort of somersault of regret at leaving her homeland, along with a sharp pang of longing for the life they had enjoyed there. 

She was riding between Jessica and Clémence and dug her spur into Bee’s flank to pull ahead and make for her husband, who was riding just ahead. He turned as she drew level with him, her unhappiness evident in her face, apparently, because he automatically held out a hand to her, leaning down toward her from the high saddle. 

Her husband’s eyes habitually wore a hard expression when in public, but sometimes, when he accurately read her mood and could empathise with her sentiments, they softened, like now, and his jaw moved in a way peculiar to him which showed his sensitivity to her homesickness. 

“Sweetheart!” that one word, conveyed with such an inflexion of understanding and sympathy, instantly comforted her. She was not alone in her longings. 

She urged Bee closer, Ben’s destrier giving out warning snorts. Ben made an answering low warning sound in his own throat and the stallion settled, merely jingling his harness before submitting to the proximity of Rey’s gelding. 

They were only able to remain holding hands for a few minutes, and then they must part. Although on Norman soil, they were going home via the border with France and Ben must be on high alert. Still, it was enough to sustain her until she could claim a kiss. 

The pattern of their return journey imitated the outward one, except they stayed in new towns and cities. 

Her dressmaker also made her hats, determined to set trends with the duchess’s headgear too and have wealthy ladies beat a path to her door, and she was wearing a new style of hat with a long feather dyed to match, which trailed over her shoulder. The feather was secured by a silver buckle to the upturned brim. 

She had worn the hats on the outward journey, each matching the gown of the day. She noticed a plethora of imitations as they travelled home, carried off with differing degrees of success. 

Although she secretly laughed at their slavish copying of her style, it brought home to her how visible she was that her style was so quickly noted and imitated across Normandy, and how important, therefore, her actions were. It pleased Ben too, she knew, to think that she was First Lady in the land, and he was jealous that everywhere she must be greeted and feted as such. 

If, by some miracle, he could achieve the English throne, and she shuddered at the thought of what he must do to get it, he would now win it for her too and not just for himself alone. While, in principle, that was wonderful, it also caused her stomach to clench and go into free-fall if she dwelt on it. 

She reminded herself that he’d wanted it since he was twelve years old, and no matter what, they could never be ordinary people or escape their destiny but must rather embrace it. As they covered the miles, farther and farther from her beloved Naboo, she gradually put on her persona of _Duchesse de Normandie_ , the light to her husband’s darkness. 

Her babies were waiting for her, and Leia, and the biddies. All looked well rested and were glad to be reunited. They embraced and kissed and exchanged expressions of joy at once more being together. Ben hugged his diminutive mother, softly kissing her cheeks and submitting to the biddies clamouring for their kisses also. He looked fondly on as there was the promise of gifts to be given, as yet unpacked. 

There was a moment which jarred. Anakin, noticing Clémence holding Benjamin in her arms, began to wail and call out her name. Nothing would do except she give Benjamin up to another and come lift up him instead who, although short of stature, was really too big and heavy for Clémence to carry. 

At this, Benjamin set up a wail of his own, stretching pleadingly out to Clémence and calling out something incomprehensible (presumably her name), tears flooding and overflowing, his jaw moving in a manner reminiscent of his father when she did not come. 

Nursemaids hurried up, each taking charge of their darling, soothing them and bestowing fond kisses. Rey rolled her eyes and apologised for the mayhem, the biddies clucking sympathetically. Only Leia’s wise eyes caught the look of cruel satisfaction in Anakin’s eyes and narrowed her own at seeing it. Benjamin was by this time beside himself and bellowing with rage. Rey took hold of him herself and walked rapidly to her room, Ben trailing after, frowning in his concern. 

Overtaken by events, too late the parents realised a pattern of jealousy had been established. Benjamin, eventually taller and rapidly developing the martial skills of his father, later physically dominated his brother, often making common cause with Edward to torment him. 

‘Short legs’, they taunted him, for Anakin had the inches of his paternal grandmother and great grandmother, whereas Benjamin and Edward favoured their tall mother and taller father. Anakin responded by calling Clémence to his side if he found her in company with his brother, where she went without question, causing Benjamin to grit his teeth with annoyance. For it seemed that the girl had established a pattern of devotion toward Anakin which she seemed unable or unwilling to break no matter how badly he treated her. 

So it went on over the years, back and forth, until Maman or Papa would hear of the latest spat and intervene, Maman proving fiercer than even Papa – because of causing Papa worry. 

Before she passed, Leia had voiced her concern over Anakin’s manipulation of Clémence. 

She had seen this callous disregard for another’s feelings before, though love was also professed, in her father’s treatment of her mother and knew no good would come of it. Again, events overtook them and it was resolved in an unexpected way with catastrophic consequences. 

Michaelmas was celebrated and the daily pattern of their lives re-established. The garden was in place and, although currently raw looking, had the promise of being somewhat established by the next spring. Rey professed her delight with it and hugged both her _belle-mere_ and husband convulsively. 

She now received her orders from her doting but stern husband. She must only go out after the sun had warmed the air. Unless that happened, she must give Purkoy to a squire to walk and stay safe indoors, avoiding both the autumn chill and the winter blast. 

Of course she must answer back, provoking that molten look from him which carried with it the promise of establishing mastery over her at a more convenient time. 

She shivered in her shoes at that look and clenched her thighs together in anticipation, growing pink cheeked under it. Now Leia rolled her eyes, and the biddies tittered. 

As September ended and October began, a fierce storm blew up from nowhere, lasting several days and keeping all indoors except for the most necessary of tasks. Eventually, it blew itself out, leaving behind a trail of destruction. Rey was absorbed in co-ordinating a relief fund with Lor San Tekka, for the dwellings of the poor people had suffered most and they had the least means to put all right before winter came. 

Some five days later two men arrived at the castle gate and sent urgent word up to request private speech with the duke. 

They were known to him for they were servants of his, spies placed in the household of Guy of Ponthieu, who had capitulated shortly after Geoffrey of Mayenne had been released after swearing simple homage. They had important news. 

The range of the storm had been wide. It had afflicted Ponthieu, driving a fine longship onto its shore. Word had been sent to Guy, who had taken charge of its cargo and passengers – high-ranking English persons, among them one Armitage Hux. 

He had put them all in chains, even the women, stripping them of their gold ornaments, of which there were many, and beginning to torture the men so that they would send word home to pay him inflated ransoms for their release. 

Their duke heard them. At the end of their narrative he thanked them, putting them in the care of Mitaka to find them a place in his household until he could redeploy them, and sending urgent word to Lando, Chewie, Neville, and some other lords, to come to Rouen with all speed. He also sent a galloper to Bayeux, to Odo, with specific instructions and the implied promise of his love if Odo didn’t fail him. 

Then he went to see his wife and mother – and the biddies. 

He found them diligently sewing for the relief of the poor. 

Closing and securing the chamber door against disturbance, he came and sat among them, eyes on his mother and wife. Imparting the news to them, he watched his wife’s eyes widen and then drop to hide the worry in them. 

His mother cast him an unfathomable look and the biddies leaned into one another, making excited little sounds. Otherwise they heard him in silence. 

Finally, he told them that he would ride out tomorrow and would return with high status guests, about twenty he thought. Would they prepare the fortress to receive them? 

His eyes never left his wife’s bent head. As he paused in his speech she finally raised it, her wide smile lighting up her face, “It will be as my lord wishes,” she replied. Her smile never faltered, but her eyes were stormy in their expression. 

“I have no doubt, my lady,” he mirrored her formality and rose to go. 

As he went to the door, Rey stole a glance at Leia, who returned her troubled gaze. 

Sighing, Rey put aside the shirt she was sewing and rose to go to a clothes kist. From within this she pulled out a bundle of scarlet and gold cloth, bringing it back to the little group. 

It was the makings of a new _gonfalon_ , which would bear the arms of Normandy – twin golden lions. Such things were carried in warfare, in this case marking where the Duke of Normandy fought. 

Without a word, the womenfolk of this duke spread out the cloth and began to measure out its dimensions. 

To say Guy of Ponthieu was taken aback to hear his lord was at the gate was understating the sweating agitation which suddenly came upon him. Observing the conventions, he gave his steward gracious permission to admit the duke, his voice faltering a little from its usual belligerent tone. 

Kylo Ren strolled in, dressed in his customary style of black leather gambeson with horn scales on the shoulders. His demeanour was relaxed; in fact he was smiling, showing crooked white teeth. 

The hackles on Guy’s neck rose in warning. He was visibly sweating now, beads of it gathering on his upper lip and forehead, he fought the urge to dab them away. 

The duke spoke without preamble, “You have something that belongs to me, I think.” 

Any self-deception that this was some sort of unexpected social visit withered on the vine. 

“My lord duke,” he stammered out, getting ready to obfuscate. 

The duke wasn’t smiling anymore, “Don’t make me wait.” 

He spoke softly, but a ripple of fear passed through Guy. Which was surely irrational, he was in his own land, surrounded by his own people. However, he looked into the duke’s eyes and called to his steward, “Fetch the _visitors_ for my lord.” 

The man bowed and all but ran from the room and they waited in silence. As they waited, slowing Guy’s heart rate returned to normal and he dabbed at his brow and top lip. 

He considered the ransoms he was about to lose, the Hux family was fabulously rich; he couldn’t believe the amount of gold they had worn about their persons. Resentment against this duke began to creep in. He began to think that maybe he wouldn’t give them up. 

He glanced toward Kylo Ren. It was puzzling; the expression Ren now wore on his normally expressionless face, his lips twisted in not quite a closed mouth smile. If Guy had to interpret the look, he would say it was one of controlled excitement, as though awaiting the delivery of a gift often longed for. 

Not being the duke’s confidante, and realising he was out of his depth, he controlled his traitorous thoughts and waited on events. 

There was the sound of footsteps and some twenty persons trooped in, sixteen men and four women, the men still in chains. Kylo Ren shot Guy of Ponthieu such a look it was a wonder he didn’t combust on the spot. 

There was a man standing within a circle of tall, (very tall), fair-haired men. The man looked willowy in build, in spite of his height. His hair, which he wore long, and his moustache were bright, brilliant red – Armitage Hux. 

The duke passed seamlessly from casting a malevolent look at the count to pinning on an easy smile of welcome to his face, moving rapidly forward toward Earl Hux and grasping his shoulders, pulling him to him to bestow the kiss of peace. 

Hux blinked, completely disorientated at being one moment prisoner in chains to next being a friend in chains. What sort of trickery was this? 

Ben stepped back and inclined his head, “Forgive me, brother,” he began in halting Latin, “I failed to introduce myself. I am Kylo Ren, Duke of Normandy.” 

The look of confusion on the Earl’s face cleared, replaced by one of shock, then his features settled into an expression of charmed urbanity, the atmosphere in the room changing to one of tension, emanating from the tall fair-haired men grouped around him. 

“Brother,” he replied, “as you see,” raising his hands to show them chained together, “I am unable to greet you as I ought.” 

“I see it, brother,” the duke replied, “but hopefully not for much longer.” 

He swung around with these words and gave Guy a meaningful look. Still seated, Guy nodded to his captain of the guard who moved forward to unlatch the restraints. 

Ben’s eyes roved around the room to encompass the four women. While all four looked the worse for wear, one, he could see, was better dressed than the others, a deep bosomed woman with hair the pale blonde colour of Normandy butter. Her neck was long and graceful. He guessed this was Hux’s lover, Edith. 

He advanced toward her, “Lady, are you without hurt? Must I chastise these uncouth fellows?” 

He had spoken in Latin and she looked at him blank faced, one of the ladies behind her leaned forward and whispered in her ear. She spoke then, in English, and the lady (maid?) answered for her, in Latin. 

“We have taken no hurt, lord. Rough handling and threats to our virtue, but though they threatened, they did not act.” 

He nodded, but his look was black. One did not treat ladies of their status as common bawds. 

Earl Hux was now unfettered and free to exchange the kiss of peace with the duke. He had one request, the crew of the longship, where were they? 

Ben turned to Guy and asked this question of him. Guy answered that they had been lost to the sea, but a high colour stole over his cheeks as he spoke. Ben nodded and bowed and relayed this news. 

Hux’s eyes darted toward Guy and no look of peace was in that look. 

What luggage had been saved must be restored to them, also the jewellery they had been stripped of. The duke then took charge of them, dawdling as his servants ushered the former prisoners out to horses and wagons. 

“You may charge me for their ransoms, my lord.” 

A feeling of relief flooded through Guy. All was not lost then. 

“At the usual rate,” the duke flashed him a sardonic smile, and then he was gone. 

During the night Guy awoke, sitting bolt upright, a cold sweat breaking out over his body. 

It had puzzled him, how the duke had heard so quickly of the English prisoners. Some days before, two servants of his had gone missing. They had been with him for years in the office of Comptroller and High Steward, managing his estates and fortune. It was a puzzle for their clothes and personal effects were still in their quarters, but they were not, having disappeared without trace. 

His unconscious mind had put the two events together and solved the mystery. This now solved mystery was not what had caused the cold sweat to break out however. No, it was this, how many others in his service had the Norman duke subverted? 

That was unanswerable. He would have to behave himself.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In medieval times a woman was often considered beautiful, or a husband professed to his having love at first sight for her, solely on the basis of the wealth and prestige she brought him. There are very few descriptions of women in medieval times, usually it is on the basis of their possessions they are judged comely and described as such.
> 
> Of course, if she was judged to be sexually incontinent, then we usually have a pretty good description of her charms, but not in a flattering way. 
> 
> Remember, the chronicles were written by celebate (sexually frustrated?) monks, convinced womankind was a cursed daughter of Eve put on earth solely for the corruption of man.
> 
> Yeah!

As they clattered into the inner bailey of the fortress, he caught sight of his wife waiting for him on the bottom step leading to the Great Hall. Clearly, she wanted to run to him as she always did, but was conscious of the status of their unexpected visitors and the politics attached to them now being in Rouen. 

Being determined never to crush or limit her spontaneous expressions of affection for him, so dear, so necessary to his well-being, he swung himself out of the saddle and called to her, “Sweetheart!” 

At once her hand drew up the woollen folds of her dark green gown and she was pelting toward him as swift as any greyhound let off the leash. He strode to meet her, bracing himself for the impact of her body against his, lifting her up and swinging her round before nestling her against him, a fragrant armful, bundled in sables, wool and linen, and totally necessary to his existence. 

“Have you missed me?” a rhetorical question to be sure, given her greeting, but one which would provoke assurance from her lips that she had, that she always did, that she always would. He granted her a deep kiss as her reward upon receiving her affirmation, the fingers of a hand she’d worked free curling pleasurably in his hair. 

“Come, love, come meet our guests,” he looked down at her, her lips now a little reddened because of his kiss, her eyes darkened to green and gold for want of him, her whole look perfectly complimenting the dark sable of her furs. 

Even though her principal desire had been to be reunited with him, she had not forgotten her manners and what was due to their honoured guest, and squires trailed after her carrying stirrup cups filled with good wine. 

Taking one, she offered it up to Earl Hux, still mounted on his borrowed horse who had been eyeing them speculatively, with the words, “Welcome to Rouen, my lord, may you be agreeable to bestow honour on our house.” 

Solemnly, he took the cup from her hands, his fingers lightly brushing hers, and drained it. Meanwhile, Ben had taken a further cup and presented it to the Lady Edith, uttering much the same form of words. After she had drained it, he lifted her down from the saddle, seeing her eyes widening appreciatively at his firm grip and the ease with which he lifted her. Cravenly, he hoped his wife didn’t notice Lady Edith pressing her body into his as she ‘stumbled’ a little upon him setting her down. 

The two weeks he spent in Rouen were of great interest to Armitage Hux and ones he wouldn’t have missed for worlds, except for that constant nagging thought of what advantage his political enemies were making in his absence and, of course, the catastrophe which would befall him if the king died while he was sequestered in Rouen. 

He found the city more prosperous than he had been led to believe, the people mostly content. This was in part attributable to its duchess, was his generous thought, who although cosseted was no trophy wife, but busy in the affairs of Rouen and greater Normandy and apparently loved for it. 

He had observed her initial greeting of the duke and had been taken aback by it, the very public acknowledgement of their affection. That it was a normal occurrence between them was obvious in the way no-one reacted to it with shock or surprise - perhaps with an indulgent smile. 

She was very beautiful and richly dressed too, in the manner of a queen. Already he had received complaint from his lover that she had nothing so fine in the way of furs. Did Edith know how much Russian furs cost? Did she honestly expect him to buy them for her? He must marry again soon, for a wife was easier to subdue than a mistress and provided the same conveniences. 

A young wife, like the duke’s, he mused, and, like the duke’s, a buttress to his power. 

The thought that Kylo Ren dressed his wife as if she were indeed a queen gave him pause, for although he had been sent by King Edward to confirm to the duke the English throne was his, he was not indifferent to its apportioning after Edward’s death. Indeed, he intended to claim it for himself. The question was, would this duke fight or would he accept a handsome payoff. 

All the signs seemed to suggest a payoff would be sufficient recompense for giving up all claim, as long as it was generous enough. Well, once he was king he could find some excuse to raise an appropriate tax and then be free to deal with his enemies at home, principally that traitorous brother of his. 

He had heard of the duke’s adamantine nature, his prowess in war, who hadn’t?” In Rouen, however, he was exposed to the duke’s domestic life and saw an unexpected side to him. That he was deeply in love with his wife was obvious, and why would he not be considering what she’d brought him. 

It needed only a few days in their company, however, to realise Ren’s feeling was not necessarily an expression of gratitude for what she’d brought him, but rather of true affection. 

He had dismissed as a story that the duke’s wife had walked across Normandy to beg a place at his hearth, women of her status simply did not do that. Now, however, he was not so sure. 

What did it now matter, beyond the inconvenience of finding another comparable wife, if some misfortune befell the duchess? Kylo Ren had her wealth now, her lands, and three fine sons by her. 

Yet, over the two weeks spent in Rouen, he saw the duke concern himself in the trivial day-to-day matters of his duchess, interested in the minutiae of her everyday life where it impacted on her health and well-being; concealing his concern by expressing it in a masterful way – in the manner of a true Norman husband, master before his own hearth. 

No, thought Hux, his father, who had predicted trouble should Kylo Ren ever make his majority, was not always right. Things had changed since the duke, aged nine, had taken homage and shown such precocious displeasure in his erstwhile subjects. Now he had acquired Maine and Naboo and had peace on all his borders save with France, and a lovely wife and three children to keep him at home. 

No, father had been wrong, this duke would not fight, and he would stay home for the sake of the little wife he liked to watch over. 

It was therefore with composure, sure of the future outcome, he accepted the invitation to hunt with the duke and attendant lords. For days now there had been daily clamour from the kennels as the rich scent of game hung heavy in the air, the hounds pleading for their master’s indulgence. 

Before he left for the hunt, Leia cornered Ben. 

“You are making a hunting party up, my son, I hear?” she watched his reaction to her question closely. 

“Why, yes, Maman. Why do you ask?” 

“Oh, just an inquiry as to how long you will be gone and where you will go.” 

He was vague with his answer, his shoulders casually shrugging. Maybe he would only be gone a couple of days he replied – a week at most. Really, wherever the sport took him, more than that he could not say. 

She did not tell him that the biddies had whispered to her of messages passing back and forth with Odo of Bayeux. No, he was up to something. Instead, she silently contemplated her single-minded child. 

He was in high good humour, and as he bent to kiss her and take his leave, she caught at his hand and tried to reach him with a warning. 

“Ben, it won’t be just the Huxes you will face, but Harald Hardrada too. Make no mistake, my son, to the Norseman a blood oath is sacred. He will come. You should know, our peoples are drawn from the same well.” (She was referring to their common ancestry). 

He soothed her, “I know Maman, but you run ahead, it may not come to that.” 

He pulled away and prepared to go. She tried one last time, “The both of them, Ben, and you with an army not big enough to face even the French king.” 

He’d reached the door by now and looked back, flashing a cocky grin that made her heart lurch with remembrance, “ _Ma mere_ , never tell me the odds!” 

And then he was gone. 

She sank back in her chair. Han had left before Ben was two years old, how was it their son had used one of his favourite sayings, accompanied by that oh so familiar cocky smirk? 

She spoke into the room, her memory conjuring up the image of that much missed husband, sending her words across the divide, hopeful that he would hear them, “ _Our son_ , Han, yours and mine.” 

And then she wept for what might have been.


	31. Chapter 31

Rey, too, knew her husband was up to something, but unlike Leia did not go fishing. She kept her peace of mind by holding tightly onto two facts: the border with France was not secure and the king of England still lived. 

Ben was indeed up to something. He wanted Armitage Hux to swear an oath of fealty on the cross at the high altar of Bayeux cathedral, and also put his hand on a sacred relic which was kept there when he so swore – a hand of the Apostle James no less. 

Anyone so swearing would incur the full wrath of the church if such an oath were broken, for instance, by one who had usurped the throne from the rightful incumbent, say a Duke of Normandy unable at present time to claim what was rightfully his. 

He began to raise the question of The Succession by degrees as they covered the inexorable miles toward Bayeux, doing so in such a tentative and relaxed manner that it confirmed Hux in his theorising. Kylo Ren had no real expectation of inheriting the English throne, but was positioning himself to bargain by seeming that he did. 

It must not be thought that Hux was so gullible that he was deceived. No, Ben’s assumed character was rather a _tour de force_ in duplicity. 

The various Counts and Seigneurs they sought hospitality from at the end of each day knew better, of course, though they gave nothing away. Previously, they had only seen their duke smile and show himself so easily pleased in all things when, and only when, his duchess was by his side. Something was afoot! 

Finally, they arrived at Bayeux and it seemed that they were expected, for Odo had arranged a feast for them. During the meal the subject of The Succession was brought up, and this conversation had a serious edge. 

Would Hux be prepared to swear on sacred objects that he acknowledged Kylo Ren as king by right of blood, the duke wished to know? Further, would he swear to hold the throne for him if, say, he could not come claim it immediately? Would he swear to surrender all pertaining to the throne when he came to claim it? 

From these terms, Hux could see that the ransom envisaged for the duke to give up his rights to the throne would be high. 

No matter, the country had paid forty-two thousand pounds to Harthacnut without bother and had long since recovered. Surely the duke would not ask for more, and if he did, well, they could negotiate down. It was only money, the throne was worth so much more and already he had political murders planned for the day of his anointing – when he had all his enemies together in one place. 

“For a certainty, my brother,” he answered, “your interests are as mine.” 

Kylo Ren’s eyes beamed his pleasure with this answer and he replied with perfect truth, “As are yours, brother, to me. Be assured, I will watch your interests most carefully.” 

Hux glanced quickly at him, but the duke’s dark, honey coloured eyes gazed back at him limpidly, and he therefore dismissed the notion of irony in his words. Oh, for the counsel of Lor San Tekka who knew this look well, and that it boded no good for anyone. 

Odo spoke up; the cathedral was open and lit. Evening Mass would be heard shortly, they could get the business done now without inconveniencing anyone. 

Hux cast over the plan and thought it good. The quicker he and the duke came to an accord the quicker he could return home. Any day now word may come of King Edward’s death and it would not do to be found in Normandy when that happy event occurred. 

The arrangement being agreeable to all persons, they made their way to the cathedral, Odo hurrying off to the sacristy to change into his vestments. 

Only a few souls had come to hear Mass, and they showed a tendency to linger afterwards, the tall, dark knight being unmistakably their duke. Would the duchess also come among them? Oh, they hoped so. Those that stayed saw history made instead. 

Out came Odo from the sacristy, inviting them to the high altar. A few priests preceded them, one carrying with great care a silver reliquary. 

In the short while he had left on the earth, Armitage Hux could only justify not having asked what the reliquary contained because where the English would use gold, the Normans (a poorer nation), must use silver. 

Where the unsurpassed English goldsmiths would have wrought something wonderful to contain the Apostle’s hand, the less skilful Norman silversmiths must do the best they could. 

Instead, he made assumptions and thereby brought calamity upon himself and upon his house. He did notice tension in the Norman lords immediately before he swore, but the duke’s mien was relaxed – carefree even. 

Surely a man who hoped to sit on the English throne would be anxious to have the oath sworn, would be applying pressure, making subtle or not so subtle threats? He would! 

Therefore, he swore to everything asked and, as he withdrew his hands from the sacred objects, he heard breaths being blown out by the Norman lords and a muttered, ‘Sa, sa, it is done’ spoken with tones of relief. 

The duke, however, was as he had been, advancing toward him and putting his hands on his shoulders, calling him ‘brother’ before giving the kiss of peace. 

Then Odo was before him, also embracing him and giving the kiss of peace. Then came the revelation, it seemed he was being asked if he wished to gaze upon the saint’s hand. 

“Saint?” he asked, puzzled. 

“Why, yes,” Odo spoke blithely. “It was a gift from Lord de Neville, who brought i with him from Sicily when he came to Normandy to visit family. He bequeathed it to us before he passed. His tomb is here too. Would you like to see that also? There have been miracles performed there. We are very proud to be the final resting place of such a noble, Christian lord.” 

Hux felt his mouth go dry. “A saint’s hand, you say?” 

Oh, yes,” Odo’s voice assumed a reverent tone, “that of the Apostle James.” 

Hux’s voice thickened, “Are you sure of its provenance?” 

“Quite sure, the miracles performed at Lord de Neville’s tomb attest, and he brought it himself from the Holy Land. Why one of the knights here was in his company when he was gifted it.” 

All eyes turned to Finn Neville, who bowed in acknowledgement to the assembled company. 

“The Pope himself is aware, and we have petitioned for sainthood for Lord de Neville and licence as a place of pilgrimage. He is lending a favourable ear to our request, though we must wait on his pleasure.” 

Hux began to bite his lip and fiddle with his belt. To break such an oath as he had sworn on such a relic would not be an easy thing. Indeed, he could bring the world crashing down about his ears if he were to even hint at doing such a thing. He had to cling to his assessment of this duke, he just had to. 

He felt the four house carls grow restive behind him at his obvious agitation and calmed himself. Turning his back to Odo, he engaged with the duke, his voice now hoarse because of the dryness of his mouth. 

“My lord duke,” he began. 

“No, no,” interrupted Ben, as smooth as ever, “brother, surely.” 

Hux swallowed, “Brother,” he croaked, “I wish to make for England as soon as I may.” 

“Of course,” Ben answered without hesitation, “you may go tomorrow, if you wish it. Not far from here lies my flagship, newly completed.” 

“Flagship?” Hux spoke with shocked surprise, his voice suddenly rendered high. 

The duke seemed sheepish, “A gift from my wife,” he explained, “her Easter gift to me.” 

He looked around as though seeking confirmation of what he was about to say. 

“Her fondness for me knows no bounds,” he spoke apologetically. “She says she loves me, though Maker knows why.” 

“That she does _beau-sire_ , spoke up one, “and for good reason, she being so loved in return.” 

“Aye,” he replied pensively, “though she tells me she loved me first.” 

He seemed inclined to speak of his wife more, but Hux interrupted him, “My womenfolk?” 

“Will be as my sisters,” was the prompt response. “I’ll see them safe delivered to you, make no doubt.” 

They afterwards parted to their quarters, Hux drinking deeply of wine. Now was not the time to panic. Edward still lived, and so did the French king. Even if Edward died tomorrow, the French king lived and Normandy was therefore not safe. His priority now must be to get out of Normandy and away from this duke. 

He took to his bed, tossing and turning throughout the night, tormented by his unquiet thoughts, departing for the coast the next day and safe passage to England on the _Mara_. 

Before he retired, the Norman lords crowded around Ben, speaking in hushed whispers, “You have him _beau-sire_ ,” spoke one. 

“Not quite,” replied Ben, “it is but one more step in the dance.” 

He looked unseeing into the middle distance, and then his face broke into a genuine grin. 

“Well, good fellows, I’m for bed and an early start tomorrow as I wish to comfort my little wife as soon as I may.” 

There was laughter at this, the duke joining in. 

Then his face grew serious, “I will not forget the love you have all shown me these past days. Be assured, when I come into my own I will remember it again.” 

He gripped the forearm of every man there and bid them ‘Goodnight’, before turning in himself. 

The next day he took leave of Hux and Odo and set Tie in the direction of home. 

As anticipated, he received his wife’s fond and enthusiastic embrace, and later comforted her as she told him only he could.


	32. Chapter 32

As promised, he sent the english ladies home safe and unharmed after an exchange of gifts and during the first break in the weather, for they were now at the time of year when it was not safe to cross the channel in anything less than ideal conditions. 

He sent with them envoys, for he hoped to persuade Armitage Hux to put in writing what had been agreed at Bayeux and set his seal to it. 

To this end he had made a confidante of the household’s priest, one who had been appointed by his grandmother and had grown old in ducal service. That he was of that time was evident as he, like his cook and a handful of others, always addressed him as Lord Benjamin – and got away with it. 

As it was with his cook, who could rap the knuckles of his light-fingered hands with a spoon or belabour him across his broad shoulders with a ladle when she caught him in her pantry, he could not, would not, ever part with him, and he knew it was not the stipend he paid which secured his priest’s loyalty. 

Frère Antoine was his favourite kind of priest for he was diligent in his pastoral work and did what was asked of him – mostly. When he heard that there was a chance a blasphemer intended to steal what rightly belonged to the Lord Benjamin, his eyes grew fiery. For the sovereignty of the church and the preservation of the dukedom – and of this duke in particular – were very dear to him. 

Accepting his mission, he did it not for a warlord with blood on his hands, but for a shy, lanky boy, gap-toothed and jug-eared, whose life he’d helped preserve through those dark dreadful days following Anakin Skywalker’s passing. 

To Ben’s great surprise, for it was really a shot at a venture, frère Antoine was successful and safe back in Normandy for the Christmas court. The vellum roll he brought with him, carrying the unmistakable Hux seal, was at that time more precious to the dukedom than all the gold and silver in the world and was carefully secreted in the fortress’s strongroom. 

The tender embrace that Lord Benjamin bestowed on him, along with loving words of gratitude, was all the reward frère Antoine could ever want. 

The rest of October passed, followed by an uneventful November. Then came December and preparations began in earnest for the Christmas festivities. 

Once again his duchess entertained those who supported her charity work, the subscribers to her relief fund for the deserving poor grown twofold such was the glamour now attached to it. As it was Christmastide, both the duke and duchess wore their crowns when on public display. 

In December a special Mass was heard to dedicate the duke’s new gonfalon, now completed, its golden lions glaring out aggressively at the congregation. 

This banner was something of an embarrassment to Rey as the English ladies had embroidered it, after coming across the makings and inquiring as to why it wasn’t finished – Rey having put it discreetly to one side because of their presence. 

Rey had shrugged noncommittally, and was mortified when after some conversation between themselves, which obviously no-one comprehended, one of them began to mark it out - taking as inspiration the arms embroidered on a footstool. 

Rey had cringed and shot a look at Leia, who pursed her lips and shook her head imperceptibly. The embroidery of the English had no peer, and fierce golden lions stared out from the scarlet, their ruby eyes glittering malevolently in the candlelight of the cathedral, red tongues exposed as if panting over prey. 

As the Christmas day feast was finishing and the company was found to be in good cheer ready to enjoy the entertainments, Randal appeared at the duke’s elbow and bent to whisper briefly in his ear. 

Ben nodded and lounged back in his chair, after a few minutes leaning toward Rey and murmuring something in her ear. She too nodded, and a few moments after that he discreetly left the Great Hall, catching the eye of some of the lords as he went. They allowed a pause and then followed. 

A servant of the duke who had found a place at the French king’s court had come with news, barely able to get out of Paris before it was locked down. His news was this: Henry Capet had passed. 

A murmur went through the room, quickly quelled, and Ben asked how could this be? The man began his tale. 

It was this way; Henry Capet’s emotional decline had affected his physical health. The damp winter and the unwholesome air of Paris had had a further debilitating effect on him. 

In order to restore him to some semblance of health a tonic had been concocted, administered under this proviso: the king took no liquid at all for twelve hours after. 

Unfortunately, the physician who administered the draught had spoken in a way that caused offence to the king, in fact had spoken to him in a scolding tone. 

It needed only this, the king had said bleakly, that a bone-setter, a _quack_ , should speak thus to an anointed king. 

Looking the physician in the eye, the king then drank the tonic down and handed the cup back to him. He then called for a goblet of wine, which his servants brought, but entreating their master most piteously not to drink of it. 

He may have granted their wish, but the doctor spoke again in an imperious way and _forbade_ the king to drink it. 

Ho, said Henry, so this is how an anointed king was treated these days was it? and, raising the goblet to his lips, drained it before the astonished gaze of the doctor. 

As he lowered it, lips wet with wine, and went to rebuke the man, his whole body convulsed and he dropped dead at the physician’s feet – the unlucky man now in chains accused of murdering the king by means of poison. 

Paris was locked down until the king’s Will was read and it was known who would be Regent, as the king’s eldest son was only nine years old. 

“Do you have any idea who the appointed Regent may be?” the duke asked urgently. 

“No, _beau-sire_ , the man replied, “I barely made it through the city gate before the order came to bar it and let no-one leave. There was no time to make inquiry.” 

The duke nodded, squeezing the man’s shoulder in gratitude and shouting for Randal to find food and a bed for him. 

After the man left them, Ben seemed absorbed in contemplation of his boot, while his lord’s looked on wary of disturbing him and his thoughts. 

At last he looked up and cheerfully observed, “Come, we must go back to the revels, or else my wife will prove herself a shrew!” 

They laughed dutifully and longed to question him, but until the Regent was known all would be pointless speculation. 

The days of celebration continued through to the New Year, when again they wore their ducal crowns. The twelfth day of celebration was upon them, January fifth, Epiphany’s eve and Benjamin’s birthday. However, there was no storm this year, just softly falling snow and no child lay in Rey’s womb waiting to be born. 

The season of frost too was upon them, making the fires crackle in the hearth. The poor people called a blessing on the duchess and her committee of benefactresses for the gift of firewood they had received. 

News came through that the Count of Flanders was to be Regent, which was good news for Ben. Flanders was a major trade hub for the cloth trade. Therefore, the Count would pursue peace so as not to interfere with profit. 

Ben was content. 

The winter months were the worst months for sea crossings, particularly the English Channel. Even the Norsemen drew up their longships onshore and stayed indoors, feasting and engaging in interminable drinking contests and the like. 

A servant of the Duke of Normandy, however, sought passage and braved the iron-grey sea, the fingers of which were constantly plucking at the boat to bring it down to the icy depths. 

He paused only to kiss the frozen earth in gratitude once he made landfall, and then called on a local seigneur to borrow a fast horse and make for Rouen. The duke received him at once, in the presence of his duchess. 

The servant cast a wary glance at the lady, though bowing low. The duke caught the glance and assured him there was nothing he could say that the duchess was not entitled to hear. 

The servant bowed low again, and murmured his most abject apology. He seemed to have a great deal of self-possession. 

“My lord duke,” he began, “your kinsman, Edward of blessed memory, passed on Epiphany’s eve.” 

A queer light lit up Ben’s eyes, but he made no response, nodding for the man to continue. 

“Two days after this unhappy event,” he continued, “Armitage Hux secured the treasury at Winchester and on that same day had himself crowned king of England.” 

A cry came from the duchess’s throat at this and she grew pale and staggered, as though she had received a blow. 

“Sweetheart!” the duke was by her side in an instant, his arms enfolding her as she reeled back. 

She looked up at him, tears flooding her eyes and then overflowing, “Ben, oh, Ben,” she wept, “my love, my love.” 

Ben made soothing sounds and carried her to their bed, calling for Jessica to come take the man away and give him meat and drink. The servant followed the frightened maid out of the room, his eyes taking in the duke tenderly laying his wife down, comforting her as she wept. 

News of the English king’s passing and the duchess’s collapse swept throughout the fortress and thence to the city and cathedral. Lor San Tekka rushed to comfort her, finding Leia and frère Antoine already at her side. She had recovered somewhat, though she clung to her husband’s hand and would not let go. 

The servant was called back eventually, and discovered practically the whole household gathered in the room. The duke bid him continue. 

There was not much more to tell, except this, “The queen, _beau-sire_ , kept all away from the king in his last days. Only those of the Hux affinity were allowed access to him. She has sworn since that her nephew was named by the king immediately before his death as his rightful heir.” 

A collective snort of derision passed around the room and someone asked, “And what did she swear on that she may perjure herself?” 

“Nothing, she was not asked to. The archbishop of Canterbury took her at her word and crowned Armitage Hux with King Edward’s crown.” 

All eyes turned to the duke. He was smiling softly, an arm around his wife’s waist. 

“The same day, he took as wife the young daughter of his greatest enemy and named her queen.” The servant’s eyes flicked toward the face of the distraught duchess and he spoke the next words more softly, “They anticipate you will come, _beau-sire_. 

“Do they?” Ben spoke pensively. He looked into his wife’s face and added, sotto voce, “Will I?” 

The room stilled. The only sound came from the shifting logs in the hearth and the occasional crackle of sparks flying upwards. In a thin, quavering voice the duchess spoke, “Yes, if you wish it. You have the right and the will for it.” 

Her voice grew stronger, filling the room, “And my heart is yours whether you go or stay, and so are our children’s.” 

He crushed her to him, then, and she emerged from his embrace pink and breathless. 

Ben took in all the persons in the room, apparently suddenly aware, “What’s this! If my horses take any ill, or my hounds, or my supper isn’t what it ought to be...!” 

There was bustle and the room quickly emptied, excited chatter breaking out once they were in the passageway, the thud and scrape of boot and shoe gradually fading. Only the duke’s closest confidantes and the servant were left. 

Ben shook off his wife’s hands and stood, flexing them to restart the blood flow, the man immediately went on his knees before him. 

Ben stretched out a hand and touched his shoulder, “You have my love and whatever reward you care to claim.” 

For the first time the man’s voice faltered, “ _Beau-sire_ , my family’s lands.” 

“You shall have them back,” Ben responded immediately, “and the errors of the past will be forgotten, if you are willing.” 

The man looked up at him, tears of gratitude beginning to fill his eyes, “With all my heart, _beau-sire_.” 

He reached out and took the duke’s hand, the one with the wedding band, and kissed it. For they both knew, in this matter, he could swear by nothing greater. 

“Mitaka,” the steward stepped forward, “the Count requires a bed for the night and tomorrow we will raise a charter for the restoration of his lands and titles.” 

“Your Grace,” Mitaka bowed low. 

Ben turned to his wife, “Will you too set your seal to it, sweetheart?” 

Rey stood, a little unsteadily, Ben’s arm instantly curled around her. 

She extended a hand toward the still kneeling man, who leaned forward to kiss it. 

“With all my heart,” she said simply.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay there are two big family events this month.
> 
> Dinnertime, in the time period this fic is set in, would be at 10am, breakfast being a piece of bread and beer or a piece of bread dipped in wine. In later times, it was moved to mid-day.
> 
> It was thought that the anointing of a king began a special covenant with god, the fact that Hux was anointed by the Archbishop of Canterbury, though a corrupt clergyman, was validation in the eyes of the people. Had not Kylo Ren sent to Rome to have the anointing declared invalid, he would have had no credibility even in the eyes of his own subjects. The view of kingship evolved, so by the time of Kylo Ren's grandson, it was thought that a king who was not the son of a king was in fact no king.

The men behind the shield wall had faces now, for she had seen some of the house carls. 

In appearance they are tall, almost as tall as Ben, especially chosen for their great height apparently. Their brief stay in Rouen before Ben sent them away would have intimidated her had it not been for the presence of her dark knight. 

Even with their height and width, their long fair hair tended to with womanish vanity, gold armlets clasped around their muscular arms and torcs decorated with strange depictions of horse and wolf and sinuous snake adorning their necks and wrists, they could not overpower or diminish her plainly dressed husband with their height and splendour. 

But behind the shield wall? Behind the shield wall would be thousands just like them, striking out over those shields with the long axe which was their preferred weapon for such work, and her Ben... her Ben was only one. This had been the image come unbidden in her mind as the formerly exiled Count described to them the treachery of Armitage Hux. 

She was sure, had she married any other man, she would have been able to play her role of expressing haughty disdain for Hux and all his treasons, fiercely urging her lord to go claim what was his no matter the cost. 

But this was Ben, the husband to whose arm she had clung while giving birth. Who had cut the umbilical cord of two of their children, and would have cut the cord on the third except he was away fighting to keep them safe. Ben, whose features and nature she could see in those very children, which caused her to love them even more if that were possible. 

He had stayed with her until the morning, his pretty dark eyes showing worry and concern. True, she had risen from her bed heavy eyed after a sleepless night, but was once more mistress of herself. She had cupped his cheeks with both hands and pressed kisses to his lips, assuring him she had taken no hurt and that he must go about his business while she dressed and walked Purkoy before dinner. 

It was cold outdoors but sunny, as he said it always must be when she ventured out. 

As she trod the circular path, swept clear of snow and strewn with wood ash so she didn’t slip and fall – Ben’s orders she guessed, she turned her mind to what must be. 

Aside from Ben having to assemble an invasion force, the perceptions of their people would change, especially toward her. She was now the second most powerful person in Normandy, for she had the ear of Kylo Ren and was the mother of his sons. 

She had seen the patronage asked of kings while at the French court, and knew she must be ready to receive flattering attentions which had as their end the hope of gain or reward. She must tread carefully. 

What would come wouldn’t be as it was in the road when she had been pulled about and jostled by the poor and middling sort who were seeking relief, the guards drawing their swords and punching out with the pommels to her distress. No, it would be subtle pressure which, if she did not apportion favour fairly, would lead to murmurings and jealous strife. 

She would consult with Leia and the biddies, she decided, lean upon them and not cause more worry to Ben. She shivered; cloud was building up, obscuring the sun. She must go indoors, for if her husband heard she had taken cold he would scold. 

She gathered up Purkoy, his coat and paws wet where he had been gambolling on the snowy grass, her companions Jessica and Christine throwing his ball for him while she had walked on lost in thought. As she raised her head to walk up the embankment, she saw Ben was waiting for her at the top. He didn’t look cross, but his gaze was searching. 

“My lord,” she stood before him, “the sun was shining until just now.” 

“I know it, lady, but have come not to make complaint but to take you in to dinner.” 

Their speech was formal, but his look was not, a worried tenderness causing his brow to crease slightly. It pained her to see the ivory smoothness so marred because of her giving him trouble. She handed Purkoy to Jessica to take in and pulled off a mitten to smooth the worry from it with her hand. 

“I am content,” she murmured to him, “it was but the work of the moment.” 

Her hand had now strayed to lovingly caress his hair and he leaned into it, turning his head to press a kiss on her wrist, inhaling the scent of her. 

“Are you sure,” he had cupped her face in one large hand, and had an arm wound around her waist pressing her to him; “I will sue for ransom otherwise?” 

Oh, she inwardly cursed herself, her weakness had weakened him. 

“I’m sure,” she replied. “I would rather you didn’t have to fight, but I know it is the only way and am reconciled.” 

They were at the stage in their relationship where they could communicate with each other without words reasonably accurately. He gazed into her eyes, seeking his answers in their depths, the true sentiments of her heart. She submitted to his scrutiny and apparently he was satisfied by what he saw for at last he began to speak. 

“Lor San Tekka will join us at dinner, and then I must be private with him after.” 

She nodded and he turned them in the direction of the Great Hall. The dinner bell rang as they trod up the steps. A servant came over at his command to take charge of her furs, hat and mittens, then Ben led her proudly into the dining hall, his duchess and queen. 

Lor San Tekka raised his eyes from the vellum roll with the Hux seal affixed to it and gazed at the dark lord before him, his look a mixture of respect and wonderment. 

“How came you by this, my lord?” 

“I came by it honestly, priest,” there was a sharp note in the duke’s voice. San Tekka sighed; they had made a poor start and would never be friends he thought. 

“I meant no disrespect, Your Grace, San Tekka strove to placate Kylo Ren by scrupulous use of the duke’s proper style, which would also acknowledge his rights as a yet uncrowned king, “only that the english Earl seems to have done your work for you, acknowledging you as rightful king.” 

Mollified, the duke replied, “I sent frère Antoine to the usurper and he willingly gave testament to his swearing an unbreakable oath to me.” 

San Tekka reflected on the elderly priest, who had been in the Skywalker household since a young man. The goodness of frère Antoine shone forth and not even the most cynical of persons could find fault with him. Add to that silver hair, kind eyes, a gentle low voice and the sweetest of smiles, no wonder Earl Hux’s good judgement had been subverted. Frère Antoine had obviously put his gifts to good use in the service of his intimidating master. Once again Kylo Ren proved himself more than the sum of his parts, as his household priest’s devotion attested. 

Lips curving in an appreciative smile, San Tekka brought his mind back to what the duke may expect of him. “I take it you wish me to carry this to Rome for the Pope’s consideration and judgment?” 

“Eventually, yes. I will send envoys to the English court to give Hux one chance to undo his folly, and then, yes, I wish to appeal to Rome, for I can undo these works by my sword, but only the pope can undo the anointing.” 

San Tekka nodded, his mind already picturing the effect of this document at the papal court and, if what had been done was undone by papal decree, the slaughter which must surely follow. 

“Aye, Your Grace, but I’m not the man for this job. There is one in your realm better suited for this work.” 

The duke looked offended, “Really, priest, and who is better than mine own bishop?” 

San Tekka spoke one word, a name, “Maurilius!” 

It was with some satisfaction Lor San Tekka noted the Iron Duke visibly flinch, with a nerve twitching under his left eye, for he had named the fanatical bishop of Falaise, a priest about whom the duke received monthly, if not weekly, complaint and reproach from Walter, Seigneur de Falaise. A priest who pulled hair and punched faces if he could not call a sinner to repentance by persuasion and exhortation. 

The duke reeled away and poured himself a cup of wine, draining it and asking in a much changed voice, “Maurilius, you say? And why would I employ him over you in this matter?” 

Lor San Tekka raised the roll and tapped it with a fingernail, “Because by this Armitage Hux has perjured himself, and if his anointing was allowed to stand the sovereignty of the church would be henceforth continually challenged, each man deciding for himself what he may or may not do. For all his faults, Maurilius loves the church and is sincere in his profession of the gospels. He will be an unstoppable, relentless advocate.” 

He allowed himself to smile once more, adding, “And no-one but Maurilius could get this pope to do what is right, no matter how great the bribe the Hux faction offered.” 

Ben nodded, envisaging Maurilius at the papal court, pulling hair and punching out against the venality within the papal court – even to his eminence? Yes, it would do, but, oh, to have such a priest come to Rouen! What mischief might he cause him, given Walter’s almost hourly complaint! 

Lor San Tekka could see something of the duke’s inner turmoil on his usually impassive face, “Rest easy, _beau-sire_ , you have one great asset here at Rouen.” 

“Oh, what is that?” 

“Your wife,” replied San Tekka, “Maurilius considers her the ideal of Christian womanhood because of her works of charity throughout Normandy and her fond motherhood.” 

The duke’s eyes narrowed. After Odo, he was sure to guard her from _all_ the sons of men, priests not excepted. 

He nodded graciously, however, and advised, “When the envoys return, I will have speech with this priest.” 

The subject was dropped and shortly the bishop took his leave. 

The envoys braved the mountainous seas and returned in early February with another missive from Armitage Hux. 

He was aware of his oath, he wrote, but felt it had been made under duress, fearing the duke would not release him otherwise. Anyway, it was not solely his decision to make, he was answerable to the national council (the Witan), and they had repudiated the notion of a Norman king, even one with blood right, and begged him to take the throne, which he had. 

“You see,” said Lor San Tekka, perusing the latest vellum roll, “in his hubris, he acknowledges the oath and therefore his subsequent perjury. Acknowledges your blood right yet remains staunch in his iniquity. Your Grace, this man may be a fine soldier, but he is no politician.” 

Maurilius was sent for and Ben discovered common ground between them, with regard to sense of mission and belief. 

They were both strong characters, grounded in their self-belief, Ben in the scope of his worldly ambition, Maurilius in the necessity and rightfulness of his ministry. They regarded each other cautiously in the beginning, but gradually unbent, forming a partnership which endured to death. 

In addition to Hux’s perjury, Maurilius took issue with the corrupt English clergy, well known for their involvement in such things as political murders – such as Prince Alfred’s, for instance. The Archbishop of Canterbury who had anointed Hux was a venal, untrustworthy individual, a disgrace to the ministry entrusted him. 

By the time he set off for Rome, Maurilius was fully satisfied in the righteousness of the cause. 

His dealings with the duchess also inclined him to loyalty toward the house of Normandy. He himself the youngest son of a poor knight, of the minor nobility, his childhood had nevertheless been a happy one, full of simple pleasures, presided over by a loving, pious mother. Rey revived the memory of those happy days, fond mother that she was. 

Upon first meeting him, she had knelt with her mother-in-law and her household and begged his blessing upon them all. As the week he spent with them passed, he found her serious and anxious to do right. 

He went amongst the household and found them chaste and well instructed in religion. Frère Antoine was an absolute joy, diligent in his pastoral work and the shepherding of the flock entrusted to him. It reaffirmed his own vigour toward his ministry. 

He set off then, determined to do right by his duke, draped in furs, a gift pressed upon him by the duchess. He must wait to cross the Alps, she had argued, the pass sure to be snowed in, let him not take harm on their behalf she begged. It was no vanity to accept such a gift she had pleaded, but one rather of practicality. 

The only woman who had ever kissed him had been his beloved _Maman_ , chaste kisses bestowed on his forehead or cheeks by that loving lady. He unbent sufficiently to take the duchess’s hand and press a single kiss of gratitude on it, blushing furiously as he did so. He rode away feeling he was going to cleanse the whole world of sin. 

He had a head start of the delegation Hux was sure to send to argue his case and capitalised on it, not waiting for the snows to clear but taking advantage of a break in the weather, crossing the snow covered Alps scornful of the danger of avalanche which might sweep him and his mission away. 

The duke had mounted him on one of his own destriers and the big Percheron plowed through snow drifts with ease, mighty muscles hardly taxed in the climb and descent, needing only a good days rest afterwards. 

He soon made his presence felt in Rome, wrong footing the Hux interest there and sweeping all before him. They were glad to accommodate him, for his eyes were noticing the lack of religion about him, the lack of want to do good in the world – even to the Holy Father. There was no chaste duchess here, presiding over her house in a fine manner, rather bold eyed sluts whose presence at the papal court he could only wonder at. His hands itched. 

He began to preach before the people, a reforming spirit was revived in them; they began to clamour for change and put aside worldly considerations, the women stripping off their jewellery and covering their bosoms and hair. 

He arrived back in Rouen the second week of April, his cleansing of the papal court cut short by the granting of all he asked, bringing with him a papal legate. Hux’s taking the English crown was pronounced to be blasphemous as he had knowingly perjured himself to gain unrighteous riches, though having sworn on a sacred relic. Anathema was pronounced upon him and all his supporters. 

When he received this rebuke from the lips of the legate, in answer he called out the Earls and Thegns of his realm, along with their affinity, and they stood in arms awaiting the invasion which would now surely come. 

The papal legate returned to Normandy and Rouen, and pronounced Kylo Ren rightful king of England, the English crown to be held as a fief from Rome and a tribute paid yearly to the Holy See. 

Three days after the papal legate’s pronouncements, relayed to all corners of the duchy, a great light was seen in the night sky, a great falling star, dragging as a tail after it all the stars of heaven. Men trembled, a great curse had been pronounced on the English, as the very heavens attested, the star burning throughout April and May in the night sky. 

Kylo Ren began to prepare for war.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fyrd = freeman

When Ben was nine years old, sitting at the feet of cousin Edward dreamily watching embroidered peacocks swaying to and fro on the cloak before him, he had, unbidden, locked eyes with Brendol Hux, acknowledged enemy of his house. 

Idly, he had speculated what it would take to defeat such a man, to place his boot upon his neck and finish him, supposing that one day he would have the opportunity. By the time Brendol Hux turned away, inexplicably unsettled by the dark eyed gaze of a nine year old boy, Ben had his answer. 

The Hux’s were defined by their greed, as were all those inhabiting the snake pit of the english court, cousin Edward excepted, all he needed to do was bring against them a people of equal or greater greed – those whose covetousness was part of their blood say, and of their recent and past history. 

Now in his early thirties, he had expanded on that thought to include men who had no land, no prince or duke to pledge allegiance to, portionless younger sons, adventurers, mercenaries. 

He sent out a call to arms, to be proclaimed far and wide, a monetary reward payable in exchange for the service of a strong sword arm, land if it was wished for, a chance for bondsman and Franklin alike to cast of the restraints of their estate, for the current landless nobility to take their place once more among their peers, for Seigneurs to become Counts, for Counts to become Earls, and he above them all, a Duke become King. 

Above him, the great star burned. 

He did not come in the spring, nor in the summer, or in the autumn, though he was known to be preparing ships and men. Across the channel, Hux was daily being petitioned to stand down the vast army waiting for him to come. 

Earls and Thegns were restive and threatening to go anyway as their farmland was going untended, lying fallow, for Hux had also called out the _fyrd_. Finally, in late September, after almost six months in arms, the English army was stood down, quickly scattering before he could change his mind and recall them. 

Ben did not come, because he intended to fight only once, either Hux or Harald Hardrada. It was a secret he kept to himself, not even his beloved wife, she whom he loved beyond all else, knew. His instrument was a red-headed man who had come to him in the early spring, secretly, full of complaint and of bitter bile about his brother. 

He stayed with the Iron Duke three or four days, and during that time he was sequestered in private quarters, the duke not introducing him to his wife, only certain of his trusted lords. Rey knew of their visitor, but made neither inquiry nor complaint, by this time understanding that her husband kept anything which he judged would taint either her beauty or her innocence well away. 

The red-headed man came again in late summer, his brother finally having sent him into exile for his endless plotting and troublemaking. He had left his wife and family safe in Flanders, and having stayed in Rouen for about a week departed well satisfied, again not having been brought before the duchess to pay her his courtesy. In early September he appeared in Norway, at the court of Harald Hardrada. 

Embedded in English society were Normans of all degrees, Edward never faltering in his loyalty to the duchy which had preserved his life and had made many sacrifices to do so. 

They came to the duke’s court in an endless stream, some returning to England, some making temporary home of Rouen. As a consequence, the Iron Duke was well informed of events in England. You could say his finger was firmly on its pulse. 

Hux returned to London, biting his nails wondering what this duke would do. Two days later word came that Harald Hardrada had invaded Northumberland, having made common cause with his exiled brother, Tostig, and defeated two Earls in battle, killing them both. He was now marching on the old Viking capital, Jorvik, (York). Hux mobilised, recruiting men as he headed north. 

Two days after Hux had set off for the north; Kylo Ren sailed with his invasion force from St. Aubrey, off the coast of Ponthieu, and landed at Pevensey, establishing a beachhead. 

As the first wave of Normans waded through the shallows onto the shore, the townsfolk stood and stared, mouths agape at the sight of them. With their short hair and shaven necks, and their plain garb, the citizens thought they had been invaded by priests – until _he_ disembarked. 

On one of the ships, resplendent with gilding and with a gold cross attached to the masthead, its figurehead a laughing child pulling back a bow, (clearly modelled on Benjamin), there was a bustle. A ramp was let down into the sea and down it came a horse and rider, a dark figure astride a black stallion. 

The horse pecked, legs adjusting to terra firma, the iron hand of the rider pulling him up and settling him. Then, with a great snorting and much tossing of the head, the massive creature headed for shore, head going up, eyes rolling, looking furiously at the gathered spectators. 

All supposition ceased at the sight of its rider, a tall man dressed head to toe in black, clean shaven with long flowing locks of hair as black and as shiny as a raven’s wing. Hard of face and eye, his imperious gaze swept over them. 

Two squires came up either side of him, one bearing a magnificent gonfalon of two golden lions set against scarlet, its gold coloured streamers rippling proudly as it caught the sea breeze. 

It confirmed what they had already divined, _he_ had come upon them, the one they warned unruly children that they would send for if they didn’t mend their ways, Kylo Ren, Duke of Normandy, the Iron Duke, come to claim what was rightfully his though they did not want him. 

Their king! 

Screams of terror rent the air as the great crowd scattered. 

There was time enough to mend the manners of his subjects, he was indifferent to their feelings, instead giving orders to spread out and establish lodgings, and forage for food. Those who had never been to England, the majority, were speechless over the rich, fecund land they had invaded. 

Men began to dream of possessing a parcel of this land, of settling here. Others thought of holding property here in addition to their Norman lands, making provision for beloved sons who otherwise would have no portion. 

Yet others dreamed of carrying back wealth to rebuild decaying patrimony, stymied in their ambition by lack of wealth, as this duke had once been until a certain wealthy Countess had come and begged him to marry her, after he had spanked her in the public square and then thrown her in the mire, they had heard. 

It might be supposed that amongst such a diverse company, containing the likes of Fulk of Anjou, impoverished through his internecine struggle with his brother, discipline might be lax, atrocities carried out. 

There had been incidents in Normandy, but these had petered out under the heel of Kylo Ren. He had made his edicts known to all and the penalty for breaking a single one of them was the same for all – swift death, as he had so ruthlessly demonstrated, even by his own hand. 

Any destruction here would be authorised by his lips alone, as everyone was well aware. 

Armitage Hux, meanwhile, had reached the north of the country, pausing only to gather sufficient force to face Hardrada, who was in York, apparently the city opening its gates and welcoming him. This part of England had been one of the last bastions of the Vikings, and their ways were familiar to the inhabitants of the region who knew how to treat with them. 

Hardrada was not there, he had gone raiding, indeed, had not long left. Hux caught up with him at a place named Stamford Bridge. None of the Norsemen were wearing their mail shirts, for they had no idea he was anywhere near them. His brother, Tostig, was with them. 

Battle was joined and Hux emerged the victor, Hardrada falling with an arrow lodged through his throat. Hux tarried mopping up, for there were other treasons to be uncovered here, burying his brother also, who had been found slain at Hardrada’s side. 

He mourned his brother, but in truth, Tostig had betrayed him, would have betrayed Hardrada and, in turn, have betrayed the duke – or tried to, for the duke had had his measure within minutes of their first meeting. 

Thus occupied, word reached him of the Norman invasion. He then made a grave error of judgement, dismissing his infantry and keeping only his mounted fighters, in the main composed of the house carls. He did this in order to make a forced march back to London, which he achieved in two days, snatching an hour or two’s sleep as the horses recovered their wind. A remarkable feat, for he was a good soldier. 

He then made a second mistake, believing that the two Earls with him had made common cause. They were northern earls (formerly his rivals) and had promised a great muster, arriving in London two days, three at the most, behind him, bringing with a great host to crush this Norman duke. 

As he headed south, he called on Earl, Thegn and freeman from the shires to arm themselves and come, cast out the invader - the men who answered that call, who perished on Senlac Hill, put self-interest aside in the interests of the nation. 

He lingered several days in London, gathering intelligence and awaiting the two northern earls. Finally, he could wait no longer because the Normans were becoming too entrenched. He gathered what he had, a host just slightly larger than the duke’s eight thousand men. 

Ben’s lips curled into a grim smile when he heard of Hux’s coming. The usurper had just made his third mistake; he ought to have waited for Ben to come to him. 

Ben had not wasted his time, but had scoped out the land and had a pretty good idea how this would go. There was a hill, or height, near named Senlac. Ben moved within mobilising distance of this location and received notice as twilight fell the thirteenth day of October that the English had taken up position on this height, grouped around a lone, grey apple tree which stood at the top. 

The Normans took confession and the sacrament, then wrapped themselves in their long cloaks to sleep – holy warriors in the service of their duke. 

Ben penned a letter to his wife, to be taken to her on the first tide, and then re-read all of hers, smiling fondly over her childish hand. Then he too wrapped himself in his military cloak and lay down to sleep, his soul prepared, believing himself to be wholly in god’s hands.


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, thank you to the band of Reylo's who stuck with this work, which ended up far longer than I originally envisaged - I had forgotten I'd started this in May, this year. An especial thanks to those of you who left both a comment and a kudo, it does revive belief in the work.
> 
> This chapter deals with a decisive battle. In the middle ages it was rare for armies to meet in pitched battle, usually it was destructive raids that protagonist's engaged in - what became known as the chevauchee. When it came to pitched battle it was inevitably a fight to the finish, usually with the death of one of the leaders. As a consequence, this chapter deals with loss of life and limb, and the death of a horse - in this case Tie. I have dialled it back, but hope the hopelessness of the struggle and the bravery shown by both sides is conveyed. IF THIS IS LIKELY TO BE A PROBLEM, STOP READING NOW.
> 
> costrel - a leather or earthenware bottle designed to be worn on the belt
> 
> enarmes - the leather straps on a shield through which the arm is passed. the kite shaped shields of the Normans would have had five, with a guige strap for carrying on the back - usually by the squires.

Shortly after dawn on the fourteenth day of October, they moved out, pausing at the bottom of Senlac Hill to gaze up at the Anglo-Saxon host standing behind their shield wall. The sun glinted off the spearheads, a veritable forest of metal and wood, as dense as the spines on a hedge-pig. 

As they were spotted, a great roar acknowledging their presence went up and the English beat their shields, chanting their battle cry, “Out, out!” 

Calmly, the Norman host drew on hauberk and coif, settling their nut shaped helmets on firmly and passing their left arms through the enarmes of their shields. At about 9am battle commenced. 

The English had dug a ditch around themselves, the earth banked up on the Norman side, filled with the branches of thorn bush and willow. It meant that the horses couldn’t make contact, pressing their considerable weight against the shield wall and (hopefully) cause a fissure in it where knight could get through. 

Hux was fighting under two banners, that of the Fighting Man, a banner depicting an Anglo-Saxon warrior in full battle array, worked in gold thread with rubies for eyes and rubies scattered on the ground under his feet – symbolising the spilt blood of his enemies. The Hux dragon banner flew alongside it, both set firmly into the earth. It was on this side Ben would fight. 

Now ready, the Norman battle cry went up, “Dex Aie”, (god be with us), and the archers advanced first. Getting to within a hundred paces, they were bombarded with spear and stone and boulder, the most, thankfully, falling short. Drawing back their bows they fired, the first arrowheads hitting some men, but mostly hitting shields, rendering them ineffective in close combat. As they drew back, the shield wall parted and the first of the dead were cast into the ditch. 

Then the infantry advanced as the archers drew back, the Norman battle cry sounding once more, to be answered with “Out, out!” 

The Norman spears plunged over the shields into the mass of men behind them. The favour was returned, and with interest, courtesy of the house carls’ long-handled battle axes, swinging without effort to return blow for blow. Norman dead fell into the ditch or died before it. The infantry pulled back. 

Now the cavalry mounted up, Ben the foremost amongst them, the mighty Percherons making nothing of the incline, pumped up by the familiar sound of the battle cry. At the top, though, they must halt before the ditch and berm, the knights standing in their stirrups and leaning over the shields to strike down with their six-foot lances, the shaft the thickness of a man’s wrist. They fared better than the infantry but must be hasty about pulling back. 

The shield wall opened, the dead once more cast into the ditch. 

This war of attrition continued in the same invariable pattern up to mid-day under a blue sky and warm October sun. The infantry learned to be quick about pulling back, the ditch and berm impeding the English going forward and following through as much as it impeded the Normans. 

This kind of work made a man thirsty, and here the aggressors had the advantage, drinking deeply from their leather costrels, easily refilled, before advancing forward again. 

Ben looked toward the shield wall, it held still, but was there not a wider margin between it and the ditch? Was the ditch itself not filling up, allowing their horses at last to come to contact? 

About this time there was hubbub on his left flank, the Breton infantry had taken fright at some unspecified threat and came running down the hill, dropping their weapons as they ran pell-mell. The mounted Breton nobility rode forward, intercepting them and slowing their mad rush, cursing them for having the heart of women. 

A great shout went up from the shield wall and a large part of it broke away, the men of the _fyrd_ mostly, with the tools of their trade as weapons and wearing a hotchpotch of protective gear. They believed a rout was in progress, as heedless of the warning shouts of their companions as the Bretons were of their leaders. Ben kicked Tie into motion and, with others, rode them down, Odo joining in wielding his baculum shaped cudgel to great effect. 

On the heels of this ill discipline came a further disaster for Hux. Ben, taking part in the next charge directly opposite the Hux standard, was recognised by a brother of his – a loyal brother. 

At the sight of the duke he slipped through the shields and leapt the ditch. Running forward wielding his axe, he felled Tie with a single, mortal blow. Ben jumped clear as his horse foundered, instinctively drawing the Saragossa blade. She shrieked as she left the scabbard, even over the sound of battle, glittering evilly in the light of the afternoon sun as she was arced down, her sibilant hiss silenced as she bit through the wood and bronze of the young man’s helmet. A great collective groan went up from the English as he fell never to rise again. 

As the mournful sound dissipated, the shields parted once more and Hux’s remaining brother ran out, leaping over ditch and berm and charging at Ben, axe lifted high over his head. Ben changed the grip on his sword and adjusted his stance waiting, his own shield raised. Randal coming up with Silencer, couched the lance he was grasping and charged, piercing the man through. He fell across the body of his fallen brother and another great cry went up, “Oh, Leofwine, oh, Gyrth. Norman butcher! Out, out.” 

Randal, white-faced, slipped from Silencer’s back as his duke briefly clasped his shoulder in a gesture of thanks before swinging himself into the saddle. Randal slipped back down the hill to prepare Ben’s third destrier, Bespin. As he reached the picket line his stomach finally rebelled and brought up its contents. It was his first kill. 

It was grinding work and Ben paused during the archers being sent forward once more, the missiles thrown at them tellingly not as numerous as previously, and observed a fair few of the arrows hitting shields and not men. He sent for Neville and told him to have them fire into the air so that the arrows arced over the shields, as they had over the walls of Le Mans. The effect was immediate, more dead were thrown out and the shield ring visibly shrank. 

At the next cavalry charge they could cross the ditch at speed and feel the shock vibrate throughout the shields as the Percherons slammed into them. Ben was using a mace now, an effective smashing weapon. English faces were grim, watching the passage of the sun through the sky, trying to hang on to slip away at twilight then to be cloaked by rapidly coming night. Ben did not intend to let that happen. 

Fortune’s wheel decided to favour its favourite child and inched forward, almost at apogee. 

The bearer of the arms of Normandy, which marked where Ben fought upon the field, through no fault of his own suffered mischance, his horse slipped on the blood soaked ground close to the shield wall and foundered, the standard falling to the earth. The Bretons fighting on the right flank, seeing the standard lowered and believing the duke to have been struck down, panicked again and fled the scene. 

With a great roar, Odo galloped up to beat them back, every fighting man on that field of blood being too precious to lose. Ben turned Silencer and took off after them, pulling off his helmet for them to better see his face – that he yet lived. Their flight was halted, the Breton chevaliers riding up to chastise them for their cowardly ways. 

From the hill it looked as though the Normans were panicking, their duke being dead. In practically a carbon copy of the earlier incident on the left flank, the right flank broke away and crossed the ditch, racing toward what they thought were the Norman lines about to break. 

Like a rope, or a chain, or a love, a shield wall was only as strong as its weakest element. 

This group was substantial, a company composed of _fyrd_ and Thegns. Realising their error, they fought valiantly but were soon put down. The wall of shields had now visibly substantially shrunk. 

The pattern of attrition recommenced. As he smashed into the English line, the horses easily treading across the ditch now, which was packed and pressed down with the dead along with their shields and weapons, desperate, haggard faces peered up at him. 

He knew their hearts; they were awaiting the setting of the sun and the chance to slip away through the Norman lines to fight another day. 

Shortly, it seemed as some mischance had occurred to the Norman cavalry. Had the long awaited English reinforcements arrived? For look, they were pulling away in some haste, the bloodied gonfalon of Normandy amongst them, which meant that their duke was retreating too. 

A battlefield is largely unscripted, only the intent is fixed, not the result, and the men on that hill, those of the middling sort, were stretched to breaking point and wanted to believe they had won the day and could now go home. The _fyrd_ once again broke ranks, in greater number than before. 

Their error was shortly revealed to them, for the Norman cavalry wheeled and charged, cutting them down - they had been tricked. The ranks at the top of the hill buckled at the slaughter enacted before their eyes and began streaming away at the run toward a great wood, to hide there and creep away under the cover of darkness. The house carls, Earls and Thegns stood firm, pressed around their chosen king, prepared to sell their lives dear. 

It was all but over, the Normans were among them now, and the archers aim was deadly. A great cry went up, Hux had been struck in the eye by an arrow and been killed instantly, laid down on the banner of the Fighting Man, which Ben later used as his shroud. Norman cavalry and infantry finished the rest, the Hux gonfalon taken as a trophy, becoming the dragon of Normandy. 

At the end of the battle, as they withdrew from the field to their camp, Ben declared he would build an Abbey there to honour _all_ the men who had died that day. For truly, the flower of England had passed and what was left were the offscourings, the scummy dross after precious metal had been refined, excepting for a few, a very few. Those that were left had not suckled their milk at the breast, Cousin Edward had been wont to say, but instead had taken as nourishment venom from the viper’s tooth. 

One more act before they pulled back, Ben called Randal to him and knighted him upon the field, promising that he should have a reward from him and the undying gratitude of his duchess. 

Indeed, after he had had trusted servants carry Hux’s body off and bury it in an unmarked grave, (for he wanted no shrine erected, no miracles performed before it), he had Randal carry a letter to his wife promising that he was well and had taken no hurt. Rey, upon reading this letter, gave Randal both her hands to kiss and pulled off every ring from her fingers, save one, pressing them into his hands while shedding tears of thankfulness. 

They drew off, leaving the field to the Benedictine monks from a nearby abbey to succour the dying, and the mercenaries who were stripping the bodies of their gold ornaments. They returned on the morrow and surveyed the field. With the heat of bloodlust gone from their veins they were not able to look as dispassionately upon their work, and many that day were sickened by what they saw. 

All, to a greater or lesser degree, spent the rest of their lives trying to atone for that bloody day and the spilling of Christian blood. The image of the bodies, and body parts, scattered over the rich green of the grass, the exposed earth glossy in appearance, always with them in some measure, freely invading their dreams. 

Had they looked closely, each blade of grass was coated with a greasy coating of the blood of the fallen, the brown earth glistening with the sheen of it, the ground underneath saturated with it. Senlac Hill became known for its verdant pasture, nourished by the spilled blood of patriots. 

Ben declared a day to rest themselves and their horses, to mend harness and put an edge on blades blunted by overuse. Then they must continue the campaign, but leisurely, giving time for an embassy from London to come and meet with him to submit and proclaim him as their rightful king. 

First they went to a port where some of his ships had foundered, lost in the dark and making landfall far from their brothers. The inhabitants there had killed his men and stolen their horses. The report was made to him that they intended to use the noble creatures as base draft animals, mere beasts of burden. He repaid with fire and sword, also taking back what had been stolen from him, their king. 

Then they marched on Dover, that town wisely capitulating and receiving his love and mercy. As they marched across Kent to Canterbury, across the road were drawn up men of Kent in battle array, led by an Abbot. This churchman approached the duke, boldly demanding that the county kept its name and all its ancient rights and privileges under his rule, otherwise they would fight him that day. 

There was no better way to approach him and he inched Bespin forward, raising his voice to swear he would change nothing. All he required was their acknowledgement of him as their rightful king, which he was in the sight of both god and men, and then they would receive his love and live peacefully ever after. This was agreeable to them and they led him safely to Canterbury, Abbot Agelsine riding at his side, mindful of the judgment of Rome. 

From there he made his way to Winchester, where the newly widowed queen was, Winchester being part of her dower lands. She came out to meet him surrounded by her ladies and made her submission to him. It was enough, in spite of her bloodline, he had some sympathy for her. 

Even though Edward’s repudiation of her had given him the throne, in his heart he knew that was not the way to treat wives. Honour and tenderness were the coin which one rendered to a wife. He would be ashamed before his Maker if he treated with disdain one hair of his own wife’s head as Edward had heaped humiliation and indignities on his. He paid her his courtesy and passed on. 

The northern Earls were shut up in London with others of the same mind, and an army. They wished him to come to them so they could draw him into a battle at a place of their choosing - they had not yet divined his nature. This is why they had not come to Senlac Hill, copying his own tactic of letting one enemy destroy the other and defeating the weakened survivor. 

He therefore unleashed his men to loot and burn, only the dwellings of the church and those who submitted to him were untouched, and the abundant grain stores needed to sustain their precious horses, and provisions for them. 

He did this with calculating detachment, but also with an overlay of cruelty at their refusal to acknowledge him as their king, and also anger that they were keeping him from his wife. It had been his plan for them both to be crowned side by side in Edward’s great church as Westminster. Clearly, it wasn’t safe to risk bringing her to him and wouldn’t be for some while. 

He missed her presence, the hundred little things she did each day to captivate his heart all over again, using her enchantments to bind him tighter to her. Who would scold her if she was careless of her person? Who would have a care for her comforts, and give orders that she must have this done and that to make her content? 

So he released them in cadres, hunting in packs like the wolf, and surrounded London with a ring of fire and steel. Then the Earls came to him like the curs they were, for if not there would be nothing left to save. He would have been generous had they shown him their love and obedience when first he asked it, but they had triggered his default position by their treasons; if he could not be loved he would be feared. 

He warned them, he would not be merciful if they proved unruly hounds again. 

He was crowned king on Christmas day, in the abbey church at Westminster, experiencing the communion with his Maker that all true kings are meant to have at their anointing. The day was spoilt, a little, by certain greedy ones firing rich merchant’s houses nearby in order to carry off booty. He was grim faced and white lipped with fury, trapped within the church for a while, ensuring later that they did not profit from their impiety or were anymore able to receive of his love. 

By March the land was settled sufficiently, those who fought for pay richly rewarded and sent on their way, and the first disbursements of land made. There was much to do, but he could visit his family for a little while. 

As the Mara pulled into the quayside, in the distance he could see a figure in a red dress standing in the doorway of a Franklin’s dwelling. He leapt onto the quay and began striding forward, the figure was moving rapidly toward him now and he knew it to be her, she whom he loved. 

“Rey,” he called out, “sweetheart,” his voice coming out with a rasp, cracking with emotion. He saw her clearly now, her hands picking up her skirts as she ran toward him, her veil tugged at by the breeze. 

He halted, opening his arms, tsking softly as he noticed she was not wearing her furs in spite of the March chill. What other neglect had she had to suffer because of his absence? He didn’t scold, though, for by now she had cannoned into him, his arms enfolding her, swinging her around and then burying his face against her neck breathing her in. He was weeping. 

“Sweetheart!”


End file.
